


The Morning Star

by Zjol



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Noxus, Piltover, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: A hand came to rest on Draven’s jaw. Fingers slid down to the short hairs on his chin, as a thumb brushed past his moustache. Ezreal looked concerted on the effort. “Do men take men in Noxus?” he asked suddenly.Draven thought through his answer with care. Ezreal noted it.“Sometimes,” Draven replied. He cupped Ezreal’s hand in his and brought it down to kiss the palm.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Draven has parted ways with Ezreal.

Ezreal had been blinking away sleep and sun from his eyes, holding the door wide open for the chill to enter his home. 

It was nearly noon, but he would have slept for a few hours more. He had not been able to pull himself from bed early as of late. He tried not to dwell on the cause. 

“Ezreal?” came Jayce’s voice. “May I come in?” He was still standing on the doorstep, dressed in a warm coat, his dark hair slicked back and eyes full of worry. The autumn wind whistled. Something was of the essence and it lay heavy in the air. 

Ezreal shook his head to clear what was left of his slumber and stepped aside. “Yes,” he said, voice still thick with sleep. He tried to clear his throat. “Yes. Of course, come in.” 

Jayce passed the threshold and had the grace to look abashed. “I'm sorry, I should have sent post ahead.” Ezreal gave a smile. He tried not to note how estranged it felt, nor how it seemed that his cheeks were stiff. 

“It's not a problem,” Ezreal replied. “Tea?”

“Please.”

—

Ezreal left Jayce pacing in the living room to put the kettle on, then moved to his bedroom to change into clothing that wasn’t his sleepwear. In passing of a mirror, he made an effort to smooth hair from his face and he tucked what strands he could behind his ears. 

He re-entered the kitchen and pulled out a handled tray, a teapot, and two sets of cups and saucers from the cupboards. He briefly allowed a pause. He wasn’t sure if he had any milk or cream. Sugar, yes, but perishables were of a different mind. 

He spoke out into the hall, knowing his voice would carry in the modest space: “I don't think I have any milk or cream.”

Jayce emerged from the hall and padded over to join him in the kitchen. 

“I don't think I have any milk or cream,” Ezreal repeated, as Jayce crossed into the room. The man gave a smile. 

“A shame,” he sighed. “And I had just been about to praise Caitlyn for instilling in you the true Piltover custom,” he continued, in jest. He reached past Ezreal and lifted the kettle as soon as it started its squeal. “I don’t take my tea with much,” he said, “do not worry about the milk and cream.” 

“I don't suppose you’d mind some mint tea?”

“I would love some mint tea.” 

Ezreal measured out careful spoonfuls of the dry leaves before making room for Jayce to pour the boiled water into the teapot. There was an air of balance and routine about the man. Ezreal was grateful for it. 

They sat down in the living room and poured out two cupfuls. Jayce was a man of his word and took his tea straight. Ezreal preferred sweetener to accompany his. He stirred in a cube of sugar, the spoon tinkling against ceramic. He had almost forgotten the reason for Jayce’s impromptu visit. The silence had grown too comfortable. He gently blew at the steam, unsure of what Jayce could possibly need from him. After a taste, Ezreal promptly added another cube.

Jayce set his cup and saucer down. He looked pensive as he shifted in his seat, his eyes focused on something off in the distance. He was uncomfortable, but he was too often in his own good graces to be uncomfortable about the smallest of issues. “I don't mean to step into your boundaries, Ezreal, but I would like to know how you are doing.” 

The blond peered at him blankly. He fumbled with his words, thoughts disorganized and fleeting. “I’m alright.”

Jayce still looked discomfited as he picked up his cup. Ezreal couldn't see why—it was a perfectly apt question to ask friend about a change. 

He turned, sipping at his tea as he peered over Jayce’s shoulder to the window behind him. The day had warmed up to an afternoon sun and it shone in dauntlessly on the two of them. Jayce, Ezreal realized, had drawn aside the curtains when he had been in earlier. 

For a brief moment, Ezreal was glad his abode wasn’t as cluttered as he felt. Though to give himself some credit, he hadn’t been wholly spread all over any place. He had attended his matches and, other than sleeping in later than not, he had barely been out of the ordinary. He hadn’t even said a thing.

“Who told you?” Ezreal asked. 

A frown passed over Jayce’s features. He took a while to gather his answer. “I don’t suppose that it would surprise you if it was from Draven.”

“No, it wouldn't,” Ezreal lied. 

Jayce allowed a sliver of pity slip. “He wasn’t flaunting it by any means…”

“He’s Draven,” Ezreal said with pursed lips.  _ He’s always flaunting. _ It lay between them, unspoken, but not thought. Jayce was less steadfast in the notion, but again, his politeness was inconvenient. 

Ezreal sipped at his tea. A question that had been burning in the back corners of his mind resurfaced in a near blurt of it. Ezreal steadied his voice, before he thought better. He washed it back down another mouthful. 

Jayce already had the teapot in hand to refill both cups. 

Ezreal gave his thanks. “I want to know how many people he’s told, but I feel as though it’d be easier to count those whom he hasn’t.” 

“Don't say that,” Jayce chastised. Ezreal gave a rueful smile. “I would not say he's necessarily—”

“Proud?”

“I was going to say happy.”

Ezreal did not quite have a response to that. He must have remembered the night differently. “I suppose that is a relief.” 

“He seems,” Jayce began carefully, “not quite himself. Upset, even. Though, I do not know him very well.” 

“He seemed unlike himself,” Ezreal agreed. He tapped his fingers on the tea cup. “I think Darius swayed him.” Jayce stilled. “The man is always spouting that...Noxian nonsense,” Ezreal continued. “I did not think Draven had cared.”

Jayce gave sigh of reprieve and cast his eyes down. “The Blood Brothers care deeply for their home state,” he murmured. Ezreal glanced at him. “Old ways die hard. You are young, but we have had to grow up in the aftermath of war.” 

Ezreal found that to be preposterously apologetic. “But Darius,” he pressed, “the way he is, you would think it had never ended. I had always wondered why and how the two were so different from each other.” Ezreal placed his cup gently down on the table. And after a thought, with some regret, “I suppose they aren’t really.” 

Jayce was ponderously silent. Ezreal stirred sugar into his new cupful of tea. He knew he had to wean himself from the sweetness at some point, but there was a time and place for everything. He did not think he could stomach anymore bitterness. 

Jayce looked out the window to give the sky a faint frown. “From what I know,” he began, “they were raised surrounded by violence. I would hardly imagine the bowels of Noxus to be very kind to two young boys growing up.”

Something pulled in his chest. “Draven never told me about his childhood,” Ezreal replied stiffly. “He refused to. I used to feel guilty when talking about mine.”

The look Jayce bore was of soft understanding. “You two came from different times. He might have felt best to not bring up the past.”

“I suppose,” Ezreal grumbled. 

Jayce smiled, though downcast. “They are inseparable. Do not blame yourself.”

“I don't blame myself,” Ezreal said. “I want to blame Darius.”

“But you don't?” Jayce asked. 

“No, I don't.”

—

“You are leaving?” Draven asked. He could hardly hide the surprise in his voice. 

“I have been called to return to Noxus.”

“For how long?” 

Darius glanced at him. “For as ever long they need me,” he answered. Draven felt his frown deepen further. He could already feel the creases in his face. 

“The League needs you,” Draven said stubbornly. 

“The League can operate without me,” Darius said brusquely. “Noxus needs me now.”

Draven sat back in his seat, attempting an air of nonchalant disbelief. They were in Draven’s home, seated across each other in matching armchairs. The leather was of a dyed red, rich and dark as wine. It suited them both.

“When did you decide to finally tell me?”

“I only received word of it this morning.”

“Did you tell him yet?”

Darius made a displeased noise. “Draven, don't be childish.”

“I will be as childish as I damn well please.” 

Darius glowered at him. His age was beginning to show, Draven thought to himself. They shared the same hair, the same green eyes, same skin tone, and he could only to shudder to think about ever eventually acquiring the same gaunt look. 

“Are you at least going to tell me why?” Draven asked, looking at his nail beds. 

In his peripheral, Darius made no immediate move to reply. He was solemn in his silence and it was already beginning to wear on Draven’s nerves. 

The elder brother was as casually dressed as he would allow; a dark grey shirt with long sleeves and pressed black pants. A silver Noxus crest in a form of a brooch was fixed on his left breast. Draven stared at it, inexplicably forlorn. Always on duty, the man. Even in the plainest of affairs. 

Finally, as if he had surrendered to any familial feelings he had left, Darius drew a spent breath. “‘Why’ what?”

“Have your pick,” Draven said. 

“I am not here to play games with you,” the elder said crossly. There was a snarl to his voice and Draven fought to keep from flinching. “Be forward.”

The younger Blood Brother considered that. He made sure to meet his eyes as he levelled his voice: “Who is Jayce to you?”

It seemed that Darius was already having trouble abiding by his own principles. He was silent so long that Draven was near to giving up on ever hearing an answer. 

“A mistake of wantonness,” he acquiesced. 

Draven gave a scowl. “I don't like being treated like an idiot, Darius.” 

A retort was well poised on the elder’s lips, before he cut him off, 

“Any man hungers for sex, but to hunger for one man is of a different matter.” 

“I made an error in judgement,” Darius said firmly. “It has been dealt with.”

Draven plucked at the leather arm of his chair. He was lying to him. “You kept that from me,” he muttered. 

“I keep many things from you.”

Draven allowed a wry smile to stretch across his face. “I remember a time of when we were family, Darius.”

Darius was quick to answer that one: “There are a great many important matters that you would not be privy to.” Then came a well rehearsed and well worn of a phrase: “An executioner need only obey the state.”

Draven scoffed. 

“I should not have expected you to have let that go.”

“You needed the discipline, Draven,” Darius fumed. “You still do.”

Draven rose from his seat. “I don't understand why you bother with visits, brother.” He took a step, arms rising to only fall with exasperation. He fought to keep his hands from clenching. “You only ever end up lamenting the past. Time has moved on and you best keep up.”

“You forget where your loyalties lie,” Darius spat, standing. 

“So have you.”

“My loyalty is with Noxus—”

“Your loyalty is with power,” Draven all, but shouted. “You only use Noxus as an excuse to seize it.”

Darius hit him, hard. The blow sent Draven reeling and seeing spots. He took steps back, only to have the armchair in the way, and he fell none too gracefully back into the seat. 

He pressed his fingertips to the point of pain, gingerly feeling along the quickly swelling cheek. This, he mused, would last for the next couple weeks. 

He looked up at his brother standing above him. Darius had a curious expression on his face as he stared him down. It was of anger and it was of hate. It was only curious being that neither were felt quite to be pointed. 

“I don’t suppose you would need my help finding the door,” Draven said. Darius straightened up, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked about to say something. Draven didn’t want to hear it.

Time passed painfully, with much unsaid between them. Darius left without a word. Draven wasn't sure of when he’d see him again. 

—

Draven brooded for days. He was not one to brood, that was much more of Darius’ activity. The Executioner preferred surrounding himself with the company of adoring fans. Brooding was new to him. 

And so he brooded. He stayed in his home, nursing hard drinks, and spent time sitting in the various spots scattered about. 

In the parlour, the red wine leather armchairs reminded him none too gingerly of Darius and their farewells, or lack thereof. 

The velvet seats of the dining room left him feeling too warm and sweaty, he couldn't quite stay long on that. That left him wondering what he had been thinking when he made that purchase. 

The leather loveseat in his bedroom was as comfortable as he remembered. It was of a navy hue so dark, it looked near black. Ezreal had looked particularly appetizing on it. Draven moved on to brood elsewhere. 

—

The night was dry with only a wisp of wind blowing now and then. The chill did not set deep. Winters were fairly mild here in the League. Wistfully, Draven dreamt of home. 

He thought of the cold that pillaged the manor in the Noxian winters. The fireplace had always been roaring, filling the rooms with its dry heat. As soon as Darius had the means to afford so, he had refused for them to live in freezing squalor. Such were the perks of being powerful. 

The vaulted ceilings of the main hall were trailed proudly with woven tapestries of the Noxus state and military crests. The dining table was long and fit for great company, not as though Darius had ever invited guests. Darius did not like having people around.

Draven reminisced about the stillness and quiet of their manor in Noxus. He was truly more the one to crave crowds and the rowdiness that followed, but for his brother’s sake, he knew better to draw it home. 

With respite, Draven leaned his forearms on the railing of his balcony. His skin was already prickling with goosebumps. 

Their home hadn't been as warm and as spacious as Darius had made later in life. Their beginnings were in the bitter cold of winter and sweltering heat of summer. In the cramped rooms prone to drafts, constant crowding of the weak, the crippled, the old, the orphaned—the unwanted—all holed up in the underbelly of Noxus. There was no pride there. 

—

The bruise had already mostly faded away. Draven gingerly prodded at it with finger. It was down to a sickly yellow colour, spotted with some purple. 

His grown in stubble hid the worst of it. The stubble also hid the sharp lines of his cheekbones and his jaw, but a compromise had to have been made. Only a few days more, he told himself, just long enough for the bruise to completely recede. 

He continued to stare into the bathroom mirror, hands braced on the edge of the counter. His hair was down and pulled back from his face. Alongside the stubble, he resembled his elder brother more than he cared to admit. He itched for the razor. 

He hung his head, tearing his eyes from his reflection, and expelled a weary sigh. He looked like him, but he was not to be like him. 

With some sorry form of resolve, he straightened up and reached for a brush and went about pulling all his hair into a simple plait. 

—

Jayce was a stout man; broad shoulders, thick arms and legs. Draven remembered Jayce to have been much more boisterous and cocky, but the man had retreated from the limelight, step by step over the years. 

_ Age _ , Draven thought.  _ Had to be the aging _ . 

He wastefully spent a moment to wonder whether he would let that happen to himself. 

Other champions milled about the foyer, barely taking note of the match. He felt a couple curious eyes on his back as he watched the arcane screen, but he simply brushed them off. He needed his attention for the words. They were small, but he was able to make out Jayce’s name. 

With a cursory glance at the time stamp, Draven warranted that there would only be a half hour left to wait, and wait that half hour he could.

—

Draven pushed into the armoury and looked over the small crowd, surprised to find he was able to recognize a couple champions unwinding after the match. 

The air was tired and sweat-filled, thick with ozone and of iron. In passing, he picked up the faint scent of soot. 

The indiscernible constant hum of idle chatter permeated the room, but Draven did not give it much mind. 

He sidestepped a gaggle of yordles, taking care in not stepping on any of them. It was not from any altruistic desires, it was at most from the knowledge that yordles had claws and pointed teeth and inferiority complexes over being so damn small. He gave Rumble a particularly long look. 

The armoury was a circular room, the walls racked with shelves and lockers. The ceiling was domed, the League’s insignia sprawled across in the stained glass of the panes. When the sun shone through in a brilliant rainbow array of colours, the lit candles could hardly compete. 

By the centre of the room was the neat arrangement of benches, for seating, and work tables, for impromptu repairs or whetting. 

It was understandably bustling, but that didn’t keep Draven from being miffed about the crowd. 

Brushing past some noones and nobodies, he slinked up to a particular Piltovian. Jayce’s back was turned to him. 

Draven had every intention to be upfront about it. Every intention. 

Jayce offered him a look of mild surprise when he had finally turned around. Draven felt words catch in his throat. He thought that as strange. In return, Jayce gave an uncertain, but easy smile. 

“Draven,” he greeted, not unpleasantly. He looked almost apologetic. Perhaps even embarrassed. 

The Piltovian was about the same height as Draven, though there was something elevating his presence. A certain sense of what Draven could not quite pin down. “I’d like to have a word.” Draven allowed no time to fumble. 

Jayce smiled again, eyes gently crinkling. “Yes, let us,” he replied. Draven wanted to wipe the floor with his face. 

—

“Having talks seems to be as much as I’m doing these days,” Jayce admitted. 

They had found themselves a quiet corner by the Halls of Justice, marked by slender trees and mossy pavement. Draven would have preferred a tavern, but Jayce seemed drawn to pacing on the uneven stones. 

The Noxian could only perceive it as nervousness, though Jayce’s sure demeanour lent for a hard read. 

“Talking is not so bad,” Draven replied. 

_ “ _ Especially if you avoid what you mean to say.” Jayce passed a sidelong glance. 

There it was again. Draven did his best to ignore it. “Has my brother mentioned any news to you?”

Jayce gave a small smile to mask the urgency rising to his face. “I am not surprised he hasn’t.”

_ Liar _ . Draven, for the first time in awhile, admitted to feeling uncomfortable. This was his brother’s affair, not his. He felt ill-fitted to discuss any matters relating to it and he dreaded to follow. 

He gathered the courage to look up at Jayce. He still had a smile on his face, but it lacked the stiffness. 

“You make the same face Darius makes when he’s frustrated.”

Draven forced down the feeling of sudden and inexplicable jealousy. “I’m not making a face,” he said. He had never known anyone to have been close to Darius. His brother was off-putting to most and cared not for social affairs. No one could stand to be with that man longer than one would need to.

Jayce gave a noncommittal shrug. 

“Are you Darius’ first?” 

_ “ _ Is this truly what you wish to discuss?” Jayce did not look upset. 

Draven scowled and regretted it when Jayce flashed a small smile of amusement. He just knew, could utterly sense, that Jayce was drawing more comparisons between him and his brother. 

“I think this is something you discuss with him, not me,” Jayce answered amicably. Too amicably. 

“You had me thinking of how little I truly know about him,” Draven explained. “I do not know if he has people he considers friends, I do not know if he has ever dated, or bedded. I have always assumed he did not partake in any of such until I saw—you know.”

“I know,” Jayce said dryly. 

“So, I would best ask you.”

The Piltovian was unconvinced. “Darius is a private man.”

“Meaning you have little clue as to whether you’re his first.”

“Meaning you are more like to know than I am.” Jayce looked peeved, “And this is not a matter I would discuss with anyone.”

“I only want to know what he has told you.” Draven found a dry patch of grass and sat down, beckoning a reluctant Jayce to join to him. The afternoon sun was waning to set on the horizon. The light was warm and the sky was cloudless. He set about studying it and rallying the rest of his guts. 

“Darius and I are neither noblemen nor lords,” he began. Jayce gave him a look of confusion, but did not stop him. “We do not come from a long line of powerful Noxian families. We were street children.”

Jayce was still. “I know.”

It was obvious as to who had told him. “Then you must know how we escaped it.”

Emotions flickered across Jayce’s features. Draven caught dread, some pity, and sorrow. Those were familiar expressions he would prefer to forget. 

“I would love to seize the credit, but it goes to Darius alone. He worked hard and harder still to pull me through. I was young enough to leave behind and be forgotten.”

“He is of your blood,” Jayce said quietly. “Your brother. Of course he had helped you. He loves you.”

“No,” Draven warned. “Darius does not love.”

Jayce gave a bark of laughter and pressed a palm to his forehead in a show of disbelief. “At a point of time, not nearly as distant as I wished it to truly be, I might have said the same of you.” He leaned back on his hands, looking uncharacteristically serene and calm. “I am enjoying this talk we are having together, truth be told,” he said. “It has been much too tense lately.”

“You are insufferable,” Draven said, though not too unkindly. “How Darius has the patience with you, I do not know.”

“He is a private man, Draven. You ought to know that,” Jayce said, looking up to the sky. “He is much different when we are alone.”

“I am sure you will tell me next that he is sweet and gentle,” Draven muttered disdainfully. 

“I would not call him gentle,” Jayce reminisced. “Though perhaps sweet, in his own way.”

Unbelievable. “He is on his way back to Noxus,” Draven said.  _ See how sweet that is _ . 

Jayce barely looked fazed. Draven’s stomach dropped. “A man like him, he must have some work to attend to.”

“He is not intending to return.”

A beat passed and Draven knew he had made his mark. Albeit a small mark. Jayce made a quiet sound, a short hum, in return. It stirred some in the centre of his chest. “Private as always,” Jayce said, barely above a murmur. 

Draven decided he liked being jealous of him more than feeling sorry for him. It was better to ignore everything else. 

Jayce broke him out of his brief reverie. “How long has he been gone?”

Draven considered it. His fingers toyed with the grass. Perhaps a week, or two, by now. “A couple days,” he answered. He continued to tear at the green blades. He wondered whether Darius would be staying at their home. Whether he had settled in his office with a fire roaring in the hearth. Noxus would be approaching winter now and her winters were cruel. 

“I had hoped,” Jayce said gently, “that you came to me to talk about Ezreal.”

Draven’s thoughts immediately scattered and he frowned. 

“Your beard,” Jayce pointed out, as if it answered anything. 

“What of it?” Draven resisted the urge to run a hand over his jaw.

Jayce shrugged off the sharpness of his tone. “You surprised me. I thought maybe you had..,” he paused, struggling to find the words. He gave an apologetic look. “Changed,” he said finally. 

“You thought that I grew a beard because I was upset about parting?”

“Perhaps not,” Jayce replied, looking like he had a sudden epiphany. “You are upset with Darius.” Draven despised the look. 

He got up to his feet. Jayce followed him promptly, still wearing that damned expression. 

“Draven.” It was forceful and familiar and unlike him. Draven contemplated on answering out of curiosity, but something was sitting heavy in his chest. 

“Did your brother…” 

Draven tuned the rest out. His heart beat slow and his blood felt thick. His head pinched in on his temples and he winced, feeling the world whirl. He must have rose too quickly.

Suddenly, he felt warm pressure on his shoulder, then on his face. He jerked away. “Don’t touch me,” he spat. It was decidedly venomous and sharp. 

Jayce took a step away and looked him over with concern. It would have been better with disgust. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may consider this as either a new, detached fanfiction, or as the following chapters of my very, very, very old fanfiction, "The Importance of Being Ezreal". I would prefer you do the former, rather than the latter, as I have reserved feelings for that piece of work at best.
> 
> Thank you for reading, always. Zjol.


	2. Two

Draven spent a forlorn night at a tavern. It was not his usual establishment with high ceilings and slick seatings and the glamour and glitz with the League crowd. It was further from the centre of the city and he was glad for it. The patrons barely gave him a passing glance, other than the cursory curious look of unfamiliarity. They seemed to not know who he was.

Though who would recognize him if they were even scarcely aware of him? He had never prior sported a beard. His hair was styled downwards into a plait. The clothes he had worn were chosen for the very same reason for his being there: anonymity.

He was quite happy being upset on his own, thank you very much.

He had sat himself down at the bar; not too close to other patrons and certainly not too close to the barkeep. Gods forbid if he had to make small talk in this state.

It was easy enough to avoid; there was plenty of space as the table stretched wide and nearly the entire length of the wall. Draven was off to the side, behind the taps, to keep to himself. Quiet and mannerly. Darius would be proud, he mused, bringing his drink to his lips. To Darius, then. He knocked it back.

He thought little of the stinging and even less for the taste. He was in a bitter mood for bitter drink. Without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his hand to the barkeep for another.

The tavern was awash in the yellow-orange tide of candle light. It made for a warm atmosphere. There were few other patrons other than himself; some in groups, threes, or in pairs. No one truly by themselves. Draven felt he must look keenly out of place.

When he turned back, he noticed he had received a second glass from the barkeep without a tacked on word. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it teeter as he swirled the amber liquid. The barkeep must have had to reach over the beer tap handles to hand him his drink.

There was a burst of laughter shared amongst a group of five. They sat on one of the trestle tables by the fireplace and all looked effortlessly elated with mead. Draven envied them.

He looked back to his bar table and took a mouthful of his own drink, holding it on his tongue before swallowing. It tasted as bitter as the last and he minded it the same.

He peered beyond the cockeyed terrain of tap handles and watched the barkeep dry pitchers with a cloth. It was getting late and some were beginning their leave with clinks of coins on their tables.

The barkeep looked up and gave them well wishes before returning his focus on drying.

Draven passed a glance to the clock hanging on the wall behind the bar. It was from Piltover, as much as he could guess. The clock was fashioned out of boiled leather and polished copper and it shone with near white light, illuminating the numbers. It looked to be well past midnight.

He caught the barkeep’s eyes and realized it must have looked like he was staring at him.

The clock. He thought to explain. “Mead, please,” he said instead. The barkeep nodded and reluctantly turned to grab a clean glass.

Draven drained the rest of his cup and nudged it over join the other.

Instead of reaching over the handles like the last, the barkeep walked around the bar, coming over to Draven. He leaned against the edge of the table, a cup of mead in his hand.

His eyes were bright, the colour of beer, and his hair was a brown so dark, it appeared black in the lighting. His cheeks were still full with youth.

“You’re young,” Draven said.

“Aye.” His eyes never left Draven’s.

“What is a green boy doing serving drinks?” Draven asked, noting that he still had the mead in his grasp.

“T’is my mum’s inn.” The barkeep’s son gave a small grin. “I am fared well in spirits and wines alike, m’lord. More than you’d believe.” 

“I’m no lord,” Draven corrected. He reached for the cup still held in the boy’s hand. He moved it back, keeping it from him.

“Apologies,” he said, ignoring the gesture. “How might I address you then?”

Annoyed, “You may address me with my mead.”

The barkeep’s son gave no indication of being deterred, yet brought his hand over and set down the drink. He stepped back from Draven and returned to his post behind the bar.

A couple more clinks followed and another group of patrons began their leave for the night. The barkeep’s son bade them farewells each and returned to drying pitchers. Draven watched them go and briefly contemplated doing the same.

Nonsense. He knocked back his drink.

Looking up from the cup, he met the boy’s gaze again. He had been watching him, but his face showed not of what he was thinking. He was good at keeping to himself. Draven felt the boy would make a fine barkeep himself someday.

“You are no lord,” he said, placing the clean pitcher under the bar.

Draven didn’t reply. He pushed the empty cup away to press his folded arms to the table.

The boy seemed amused. His eyes twinkled as he turned away to grab another pitcher. “Funny as you carry yourself like one. Care to share where you’re from?”

Draven thought of why he was at the inn in the first place. He figured it couldn’t hurt to tell truths. Some truths.

He glanced over his shoulder and noted who was left. Over by the door were two men leaning intently over a card game, their pints long forgotten on the side. The boy followed his gaze.

Draven pushed the cup further along towards the barkeep’s son, the scraping sound bringing the boy’s attention back to him. “Another, please.”

Refilled, the cup was returned to him. The barkeep continued to polish pitchers, eyes straying often to stay on Draven.

“You give all your patrons this treatment?” Draven asked, peering down into his dark mead. He needn’t to drink—the smell was palpable.

The boy smiled at the pitcher in hand. “Only the curious ones.”

He bent down and placed the pitcher under the bar and reached for another. There was a frustrated hiss from the pair in the card game, but neither turned to look. The night was falling none too gently and Draven, turning his cup, was tempted.

“I’m from Noxus.” He thumbed the blunt lip of the cup. “I work for the state.”

The barkeep’s son fell quiet. He finished polishing off the last pitcher and put it away, all while keeping that damned expressionless look on his mug.

It was hardly an uncommon of an reaction. Most of Runeterra held reserved feelings of Noxus at best. Draven had long learned to accept it. The perseverance was essential.

Draven watched the barkeep’s son retrieve a glass of his own and fill it with wine. He drank deeply and poured another cupful before rounding the bar and joining Draven on a barstool. His apron had already been removed.

“No lord, huh?” The boy gave him a sidelong glance. “What is it that you do for the state?”

“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”

It was in jest, but the boy did not laugh. Neither did he seem terrified or fazed by the idea. Perhaps he had heard plenty of the like.

“Do you kill for the state?” the barkeep’s son asked.

Draven thought little for an answer. “Yes.”

The boy studied him for a long time. Finally, he tore his eyes away to take a sip.

“My father was a soldier,” he said. “He died when I was still on my mum’s breast.”

Draven did not apologize for his loss. He did not feel the need to. “I am no soldier,” he said with a scoff. His fingers toyed with the glass. “I was raised to be one, but I liked it not.”

The boy considered his words and then laughed into his wine. “I do not believe anyone likes it.” _Darius likes it_ , Draven thought bitterly. “But you are no soldier, nor lord.”

Nodding, abiding. “I am an executioner,” he said.

Draven relished in the awe that dashed across the green boy’s face. He caught notes of surprise and wonder, stirred with a boiling undercurrent of horror.

“An executioner,” the boy repeated, trying out the word in his mouth. He was quick to adapt. “Aye, a grim job, that one.”

Draven shrugged. “I make it worthwhile.”

“I’m sure.” The barkeep’s son drank deeply. When he finished, he set his cup down, already having another question lined up:  “What is a Noxian executioner doing in this town? You looking for someone?”

“No,” Draven wanted to reply. He gave his silence some time, allowing it to root. He needn’t be hasty.

There was grumbling that sounded from behind them followed by reluctant clinks of coins. The men have finished their game. Perhaps, Draven thought, he should do the same.

The boy bade them farewell and good night as the tavern door opened for a cool breeze. It then swung shut, keeping the rest of the chill out. The fire in the hearth was but a few ambers, though the room was warm still.

“Last orders,” the barkeep’s son said to Draven.

Draven threw his drink back and handed over the cup. “Wine,” he said. He was ever in the mood for trying everything.

The boy grinned. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Best you keep count of your drinks, executioner,” he said, going back around the bar to fill the cup. “Lest you start chopping off the wrong heads on my account.”

Draven thought of correcting him—he didn’t do the deed in a mere swing of an axe, he had more showmanship than that—but bit his tongue in knowing the hearts of small townsfolk. “Do not waste your worry, I am not here on state business.”

“I had hoped not,” the boy chirped. He was back on his stool and he passed him his order, hand lingering when Draven took hold of it.

The Noxian brought the drink to his lips, but did not indulge in a taste. The intent gaze set upon him was heavy and he lowered the cup.

“I had hoped much for something else,” said the barkeep’s son.

“One would find himself on the block,” said Draven, “if he were to suggest such a thing.”

A small smile lifted a corner of his lips. “Are you offering?” he asked.

“I am taking,” Draven amended.

It was not a moment sooner when he found the barkeep’s son plastered against him, his mouth warm and clumsy with mirth. He tasted of the sour wine he had been favouring and Draven decided he minded it not on his tongue. The boy was eager and brimming with so much enthusiasm, it was refreshing. His hands gripped at Draven’s shoulders, his fingertips digging deep for a hold. Strong, this one, he thought. He unceremoniously tugged him closer, arms circling low on his waist.

Draven kissed him, matching his ferocity, and felt few gentle scrapes of stray stubble against the brush of his jaw. He wondered what his own face must feel against the boy’s.

He ceased his thinking for the moment he felt the prodding eagerness pressing to his hip. Draven made a low hum in his throat and closed his eyes, pushing the barkeep’s son against the table. His own groin was heavy with longing and he reached for the boy’s thighs, hiking them up none too gently.

He broke their kiss with a gasp when Draven thrusted his hips against him. Sparing little time, Draven felt around the boy’s waist, searchingly, before hooking his fingers to the band of his pants and pulled until it came midway down his thighs.

Draven leaned down, locking their lips again, as he went about unlacing himself from his own bottoms. He was met with unprecedented compliance and he stopped to open his eyes. The green boy was pinned beneath him and had his knees near drawn to his chest, his fingers splayed on Draven’s shoulders. His lips were swollen red, his face flushed, but his eyes were more sober than his drinking would have allowed.

Draven felt his cock twitch. And instantly felt shame.

“How old are you?” Draven asked.

The barkeep’s son didn’t immediately answer. He tried his best to look indignant at the question.

Draven leaned back, daring him.

“This would be my seventeenth winter,” the boy muttered.

“Should have known,” Draven said. He stood up and stepped away, turning to lace himself back up with what dignity he had left.

The boy followed suit, pulling his pants up. “Why did you stop?”

Draven almost laughed aloud. He shook his head and braced a hand against the stool. “You’re not ready.”

He made a sour look. “I am plenty ready.”

“You are scared,” Draven pointed out.

“Am not!”

“You are scared,” Draven said again, firmly. “What are you doing inviting strange men to your body? Gods. What if I hadn’t stopped?”

The barkeep’s son blinked away.

“What if I had hurt you?”

“You didn’t,” he replied. He peered at Draven, almost timid before he continued, softer in voice, “And you won’t.” He must have meant it as a statement.

The boy looked his age. His mussed dark hair had fallen across his brow, his searching gaze wide, and with the radiating eagerness to please, he reminded Draven of…

“I have,” Draven grimaced. He pressed coins onto the bar. It was for the drinks, but plenty surplus for the boy. He had debated it briefly on leaving a large tip—it had reminded him of the customs with tavern wenches and the implication was tasteless—but thought it would leave a lasting impression either way.

Draven didn’t need to see the boy’s face for the disbelief that backed his words, “You are just going to leave, then? After all that?”

He stepped out of the threshold, thanking the gods he had not followed. It would have made it more painful and more pathetic than it would have had to be. The boy, Draven decided, was far better without him.

His breath fogged the air. The night had not ceased its cold and Draven grimly began his trek for a carriage back home.

—

The night settled like a dense blanket of dark blue, dotted with eager stars.  The moon shone brighter, despite the waning. There was a deep chill and his breath fogged before him.

Jayce was sitting on his porch step when he returned.

“I’m flattered,” Draven muttered, cold hands struggling for his key. “But I’m no substitute for my brother.”

“A thought of which had scarcely crossed my mind,” Jayce said dryly. He stepped into the parlour after Draven and promptly pulled his hands from his pockets, warming them vainly. Draven’s house was just as frigid as the outside air.

The Noxian largely ignored Jayce as he went about starting a fire. Draven was exhausted, but not so much that he would sleep in an ice box. As soon as the orange flames had turned curls of kindling into ash and had licked its heat across the bark of small sticks, he tossed in a split log, then two. He kneeled by the hearth, tending to the fire with unprecedented care. He was much too aware of Jayce pacing back and forth. It was distracting.

Draven fed the fire another log. “You are going to wear holes in my rug.”

“I will buy you another.”

Draven stifled a chuckle. Not the moment. “I can only offer you bitter drinks. I don’t have any of that Piltovian nonsense.” He prodded at the logs with an iron poker.

“It’s only fair,” Jayce said amiably. “I can only accept bitter drinks right now.” His tone gave Draven a pause and he looked over his shoulder. Jayce had stopped his pacing, only momentarily, and was engrossed in studying his wall hangings. His shoulders were bunched and his jaw held tight. His feigned nonchalance would have worked on a lesser day.

When the fire was fed and full, he walked to his kitchen and scanned his drink cabinet. He thought perhaps wine would be choice for his guest, but Draven didn’t think he’d be able to stomach the sour taste, not this night. Maybe not ever.

He brought two glasses to the parlour and a bottle still sealed with a waxed cork. Jayce passed an odd look over.

Draven paid him no mind and settled the glasses down on a stray side table, unceremoniously uncorking the ale and spilling drops as he filled the cups. Jayce cleared his throat as the liquid passed the halfway mark of the each of the glasses. Draven cared little for his opinions at this hour. Gods knew he needed the drink.

Near to the brim, almost overflowing, Draven finally stopped and returned the cork. He only placed it gently back in, knowing full well he’d need the bottle open to pour again.

Jayce stepped towards him and the side table, looking miffed. All too miffed having just appeared in the dead of night at another man’s doorstep. Uninvited, Draven might add. He gestured at his handiwork: two full glasses sitting in pools of drink.

Rather tentatively, the Piltovian took one and brought it to his lips, sipping lightly. He was being polite. Draven was not so ginger.

“Where might have you been before this hour?” Jayce asked, stepping back to lean against an armchair. The colour of wine, that one. Draven bit back bile.

“Thought you were fucking my brother, not me,” Draven replied. Taste was for class, he decided. He took a deep drink.

Jayce broke his study of the glass with a dry chuckle. He smiled wryly at his feet and shook his head. “I might take a chance and say that you were drinking.”

“Hm. What gave it away?”

Jayce had no immediate answer. He was toying with the ale in hand, swirling it this way then that. His face was taut with worry. Even in the fluttering glow of fire, it was obvious he had little rest. His jaw was covered in day old hairs. Draven wondered whether he had been home at all. He watched as Jayce took a swig of the ale, more heartily than the last. His ring finger tapped rhythmlessly on the glass. “I have not heard from Ezreal.”

Draven brought the ale towards his mouth. The logs crackled and popped in his silence. He became acutely aware of the cold numbness in his fingers and toes. He wished to be warmer.

“He would let someone know if he were on an expedition,” Jayce continued. His breath fogged and caught the warm orange light from the hearth.

Draven downed his drink. He was decidedly tired. “Are you always this prying?” He set the glass down on the wet tabletop. It sounded louder than he had meant. He waved it off and walked towards the fireplace.

“Ezreal would never leave without letting someone know,” Jayce pressed. “He is a seasoned explorer and knows very well the risks. His parents instilled so in him. He is young! He should not be—Gods! What are you doing?”

By this point, Draven had already stripped down to his small clothes. The dry heat was a welcome sensation to his skin and he held his arms out to each side, basking.

“You have said so yourself,” Draven muttered. “He is young. Curious. He is likely exploring something he would rather keep private.”

“He is not—“

Jayce stopped himself. Draven heard him place his glass down on the table. It gave a low clink. There was still drink in it.

“He is not what, Jayce?” Draven prodded.

“Draven, please put your clothes back on.”

“You have me piqued. He is not what? _Sexual_? Would hate to be the bearer of bad news, my friend—“

“There is no need,” Jayce snapped.

Quiet followed and Draven closed his eyes, still absorbing the warmth from the fire. Feeling came slowly to his fingertips and he flexed his hands, hoping to get circulation through.

Jayce broke the silence. “Draven,” he said.

“What?” he replied. He finally turned around, dropping his last undergarment to the floor. Jayce looked away with an air of disbelief. Draven scoffed. “We are both men here, last I remembered.”

Time passed, long enough for Draven to feel his ass begin to burn from the fire behind him. Jayce was still avoiding his direction.

“What, are you not pleased by what you see?” Draven asked. He knew what he looked like. He splayed his hands out, inviting a gander. “Or are you?” He took a step towards him. “Or perhaps it is that I look like him.”

“Not what I came here for,” Jayce seethed to the ceiling. “

“I can not possibly imagine I would be worse than my brother,” he goaded. “He need not know.”

“Gods,” Jayce tore his eyes from the ceiling and glared intently at Draven. “I thought you would care for his safety.” He then shook his head, looking both disappointed and appalled.

Draven decided he liked curses in Jayce’s mouth. “It does not hurt to offer my services,” he shrugged.

“Wanton,” Jayce said finally, with a note of venom. He glared through Draven’s confused face. “Ezreal is not wanton.” He left without much fanfare after that.

Draven picked up and finished Jayce’s glass, kicking his lump of clothes on the floor as he passed. Maybe he should be ashamed. He had been half-erect at the thought of bedding who was his brother’s, almost gleeful for it, as it were some sort of perverse insult.

Drunkenly, he climbed into bed. The bedspread was supple on his skin and he easily dipped into slumber, his last thoughts reminiscing on how much Ezreal had loved the silken sheets.

—

The sun parcelled its rays into his room, spilling its warm glow across the blankets and his eyes. A hand toyed gently with his hair. It was a soothing sensation and he leaned into it, finding it urgently therapeutic. As Draven was about to roll over, he found an arm curled against his chest.

He glanced down and found Ezreal nestled on his shoulder, looking at him, watching him, with those searching eyes. The sun illuminated his face, freckles stark against his skin, his eyes bright, almost alight.

Draven felt a sense of comfort that Ezreal did not look frightened, that he did not look overwrought. He looked at peace. It was a look unfamiliar to Draven and his heart bore that regret.

—

The sun was pale as it filtered through the drooping rain clouds. Draven raised his head with some difficulty, neck feeling stiff, and cast his gaze across his blankets. He was not about to let such matters get to him.

He rose and instantly was hit with the cold dead air of morning. The fire had gone out some hours ago and his house had ample of time to cool. He gathered up a blanket and threw it over his shoulders as he padded to the kitchen, looking for water. He nearly bumped into the side table that held two glasses and a bottle. He turned away with a sniff. Jayce had come to him last night with news.

Draven was reminded of a time he had ran from home when he was a child. He had already forgotten what he had fought about with Darius at the time. Draven shook his head, trying to clear the cloud of thoughts.

He was sure it had happened more than once, when he would up himself in the dead of night and hide. Sulking and licking old wounds in the slick dark of Noxus alleys. He had never thought of how it had affected Darius, if at all. The elder often pretended it never happened. He acknowledged little of Draven’s attention seeking.

In the present, Draven stared at the pair of armchairs by the table. It was awful, he decided. He was not Darius. He was not made of state pride and authoritarian efficiency, compartmentalized and stoic. “I hate him,” Draven said aloud. His voice was rough from sleep and the words were tangled in his dry throat.

He got ready for the day, pulling on clean clothes without so much as looking at them. He locked the front door behind him as the first timid drops of rain fell. He much preferred the weather in his dream; warm sun rays and endless skies, a day spent in bed with Ezreal. He almost wished he had not woken up.

—

The rain turned into a light mist midway through the trek. Not like it mattered much to Draven, he was already soaked to his undergarments. He had taken a carriage to the opposite end of the League, where the sharp cliffs jutted from the earth with sparse sprinklings of brush and green grass. Ezreal had often spoke about finding solitude here. Draven did not see it.

The carriage only got him to the base of the mountain and already, Draven felt he had put in too much. He should have just told Jayce about it, instead. That Piltovian’s sense of righteousness would have flew him twice around in search of Ezreal. Now, soaked in rain, Draven hiked up the gentle paths, trying to find that solitude that was so revered. Maybe Ezreal would be with it.

—

It was near evening when Draven began his descent. The stars weighed heavily on him.

—

He made a small dinner and sat before the fire flickering away in his hearth. He thought of how he had never once cooked for Ezreal. It made the meal unappetizing.

With some reluctance, his mind strayed to where Ezreal might be. For all Draven knew, he could be right back home and Jayce just had not bothered to give him such an update. Draven would not blame him. He had not given an impression he found Ezreal’s absence a cause for concern. He contemplated reaching out to Jayce to ask. Though, Draven knew better than that.

He was cleaning up when a rapt knocks sounded from his front door. He hesitated. Night had already fallen over the sky and it was no time for mannerly visits. Darius was states away in Noxus, assuming his duties. He knew Jayce to be too upset with him to make another late stop. He stepped out from the kitchen. Draven was loath to admit at all that he was expecting Ezreal.

Draven made tentative way down the hall and nearly jumped at the next series of knocks. His heart, he realized, pounded away in his chest from all the tension. He let out a slow breath, chiding himself as he unlocked the doors.

He felt disembodied when he saw who was on his doorstep. The courier gave a curt greeting, addressing Draven by his title in full, and holding out neatly pressed parchment papers.

“...sincerely apologize...sent with urgency...”

Draven hardly remembered signing for it and taking it to his study, but he would have had to. He was there still, seated in his study chair, staring at the thick wax seal and at the inlaid crest. The wax glob had two runoff droplets, glossy smooth in the candlelight.

He had already flipped to the front and taken a glance at the handwriting, but found himself drawn to the seal. He traced a finger along the ridges and reliefs of the crest, and left it unbroken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and thank you for reading. Zjol.


	3. Three

A budding ache had begun to sink its way into his shoulders as he went about cleaning his blades. Draven had taken a hit during the match, which had left his upper back strained and sore, much to his own bitter and tired chagrin. He paused briefly in the polishing to rolled his shoulders back, then forwards, in a futile effort to loosen the tension. If anything, it made for a worse pain.

When he finished with the polish, slow as he was, he carried the glinting axes to the armoury. Most champions of the League kept their weapons on them, or with them at hand, but Draven had few uses for spinning axes in his day-to-day. Aside, he did not mind the attention the tools of his trade garnered when displayed in his absence.

He left the Halls of Justice and hailed a carriage for the town, still rather aware of the twinge in his back. He shifted uncomfortably as he attempted to make peace with the ache, but it was inconveniently persistent. The cobbled and sloped paths did little to help.

The carriage stopped and Draven stepped off to the soft whinnies of the brown steed that had led the cart. Draven handed the fare to the driver, glancing around for the building.

“It's a good look.”

Draven turned away from his search and back to the carriage,

“What is?”

The coachman sat back on his perch and took hold of the reins in his weathered hands. “Your beard,” he said. “Makes you a man.” He gave the reins a gentle snap, the horse and carriage turning away. While Draven felt apt to, he did not argue.

He crossed to the other side of the crowded square, head spinning for the library. It was supposedly an imposing one, decorated in marble columns and intricate reliefs. It would have been built by the League and it surely would keep extensive collections of books and scrolls and tomes alike...as far as he were to assume.

As Draven traversed the crowds of midday shoppers and meanderers, he became miffed in the process. The ground was paved with large granite stones, and many of houses rose easily to four or six storeys of wood and brick. In the effort to appear uniform and unchanging, to look so stable and steady, everything looked much too alike. Everything looked the same. The walls and adjoining walkways and bridges between watchtowers arched high overhead, but they too appeared identical from below.

The colours of the streets and the colours of the building bricks were of a grey stone, and it were, as it seems, a colour without colour, and it was everywhere. Everything looked too much alike. Though, there were small colourful banners which made some attempts to interrupt the palette from above. They streamed from here to there, high up from the roofs, and it stretched such distances, it drooped down at the crest of each line, until its lowest point was no more than metres away from his reach. The web of flags helped not in direction.

This was all so ridiculously perplexing, that Draven had to wonder whether it was designed to be as such. If he were to rule a hold, he decided, this would not do. He would have monuments, pillars, and statues be plotted throughout, as points of interest for visitors and residents alike. They each would be unique and built with purpose. He would not have two buildings identical to each other. There was no fanfare in that.

Draven stopped at the edge of the road and swivelled on the spot. He couldn’t have missed it, yet he saw no sign of it still. He turned around and walked back, searching.

“You lost?” a woman asked. She was leaning from a doorway of a smith shop, looking at him with narrowed, wrinkled eyes. It was not of suspicion, but neither did it lack its brand of wariness. She had on a heavy leather apron, blackened with ash and grime. She wore no gloves and her fingers were dirty as they grasped a long metal tool.

Draven contemplated ignoring her, but banished the thought as quickly as it came. He looked longingly down the road. Perhaps he had missed it on the way up. “Yes,” he replied. “I’m in search for the library.”

She stepped from the shop, wiping her free hand on her apron. “It’s up ahead, where you were just coming from. You have to go ‘round the smokehouse.” She gestured and pointed as she spoke. Draven minded the instructions the best he could. He thanked her and went about his way back.

—

Draven did not know of his own plan. He supposed he did not really have one, having just foolishly barged into a space he had little familiarity with.

There were many floors of shelves upon shelves, punctuated with a crowning skylight above. The undulating ironwork supported glass as it sprawled from the centre of the ceiling, the black roiling like roots of a tree. And as Draven continued to peer above, he marveled at the sheer levels the League Library contained. He could get lost in here. And with a soft snort to no one but himself, he realized that may have been the appeal to Ezreal.

All of the upper floors opened as mezzanines, the lowest acting as the foyer. There was a reception counter made of polished wood that extended wall to wall. The shuffling clerks behind it barely gave him a second glance.

He made his way to one of the four swirling staircases and went up.

On the fourth floor, Draven leaned against the railing, peering down below with light admiration. Easily, he could see down to the foyer. The clerks were tiny at this height. He stepped back and hummed lowly to himself.

It was warm here. Many a common folk going about, some seated and engrossed in books. It surprised Draven, though he kept the surprise to himself.

Draven found a quiet seat on the fifth floor. He kept an ankle balanced on his knee as he surveyed the library. He had the perfect view; he could see most of all levels, but the best of all was his clear line of sight to the staircases that coiled from floor to floor down to the main entrance.

He sat for as long as he could manage, shifting every other minute to the whims of his backache. He had watched academics come and go, clerks stalking about and filing and refiling. It was tedious work and he often fought from falling asleep in the armchair. Finally, he stood and rolled his shoulders.

Stillness lent for stiffness. As he stretched in vain, he glanced up to the glass. The light was beginning to be coloured in evening and Draven felt it best to retire, at least for this night.

He began his descent down one of the four stairways, yawning. His back whined from the movement. The winter sun was setting quick and by the time he reached the second floor, the library was filtered in its orange glow. The evening quality of light set the checkered foyer flooring aflame, the shades of wood shimmering from each other. Draven peered past the handrails to see the spectacle, awed. He made a mental note to revisit, perhaps in the company of morning sunrise. He’d like to see the hues dawn would bring.

Draven continued downwards, inexplicably drawn to small wonders. A chord of familiarity was struck and he stopped, stuttered in step. The name escaped him before a thought was made: “Ezreal.”

He gripped the banister and leapt over it, landing loudly from halfway down the stairs to the foyer. The blond turned, eyes curious, then confused. Unfamiliar. A clerk from the desk asked them sternly to leave and Draven obliged in haste. He took Ezreal by the upper arm and careened them both out the front doors. Shops were closing and the streets were now scarce of people, the evening light fading from view.

Ezreal pulled his arm away and he flickered his gaze to Draven’s shoulder and no higher.

“Jayce was looking for you,” said Draven.

Ezreal nodded. He was wearing a brown coat with a bag slung over a shoulder. He thumbed the strap, silent in thought. He noticed Draven’s gaze and, almost chidingly, he spoke,

“Your beard.”

Draven brought a hand to his jaw, about to protest, but the rough hairs made him rethink. His beard was getting thicker. He should have, would have, at least trimmed it before making a public appearance. He wondered idly what the spectators and other champions had thought. No one had voiced their comments, save for the one. Now two.

In quiet, Ezreal had been watching him with a clouded expression. Draven decided he didn’t like that on him.

“You must let Jayce know where you are.”

Ezreal took a half-step back and Draven was struck with the sudden thought that he was to bolt. Draven had no course of action necessarily planned. He supposed he would have to chase him down, or tackle him. Though Draven would best prefer to throw something at him. He glanced down to Ezreal’s wrist and noted the gauntlet was not worn. Draven would have a chance at a chase, then. That much was certain.  
  
When the silence became near too much to bear, Draven became worried about what Ezreal had accrued during all his time in the library. He was all too quiet. It was not good for a young man to spend their days in silence; it tempered effervescence. But perhaps that applied only to Draven. He could see that, perhaps, Ezreal looked measured, not mollified. He held himself taller—maybe he grew taller—and he seemed collected.

With a scrunched face, Ezreal asked, “When do you speak with Jayce at all?”

Draven shrugged. “Only in passing,” he replied.

Ezreal appeared to accept that explanation well enough and he turned his head, thoughts circling. The streetlamps were slowly being lit, but the shadows suited his profile. “I have already told him,” he said stiffly. He looked embarrassed for Draven.

Draven inwardly cursed. Leave it to Jayce to keep that bit of information from him. He inhaled deeply, the faint aroma of fruits mixed with horse dung gracing his nostrils. He was reminded of his childhood and was filled with the sudden need to spit. He tried to stray his mind from it.

“When?” he asked, squinting at the streetlamp beside them. Ezreal followed his gaze.

“Some nights ago,” he answered. "Two, I suppose." The firelight softened his cheekbones and brows. He was staring right into the flames.

Draven thought back two nights. “You would have told him late,” he said. “Where had you been?”

Ezreal’s brows furrowed again. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“Jayce was in my company,” Draven shifted, feeling his backache give complaints on standing. “He left late. Where had you been?” he repeated.

Ezreal gazed into the fire still. Draven did not find the same interest in the lamp. He had forgotten how beautiful Ezreal looked, though he wasn’t sure he had known it to forget. There was vibrancy behind his collectedness.

“Does Jayce often spend nights with you?” he asked.

Draven grimaced. Struck with the memory of rejection. “He stayed far past his welcome, if he were ever welcome to stay,” grumbled Draven.

Ezreal regarded him then turned away. “I hardly recognize you,” he confessed to the lamp. Draven tilted his head, unsure. “When I heard your voice calling my name, it reminded me of something else entirely,” said Ezreal. Then he made a displeased frown at the light and continued no further. Draven fought to keep from reaching out as Ezreal swallowed the rest of his words and fell silent. Night had fully descended and covered the town.

Draven considered it patiently. “It is late. I will take you home.”

Ezreal shook his head. “No, thank you,” he croaked.

“Then come with me tonight,” Draven offered instead. Something had changed in an instant. Ezreal’s shoulders squared and disbelief passed his face, though disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

“A shame,” he said. He looked up at the Noxian.

“Not for what you think of me,” Draven said. “I have a spare room.”

“You are tempting me,” Ezreal replied. He took a moment’s thought, and in a softer voice, “It is cruel of you.”

“I have been crueler.”

—

It had once been familiar to come home with Ezreal. But they now stood apart and solemn on the doorstep as Draven picked out his keys.

Their breaths ghosted in the cold air. Draven had not been home since early morning and it had cooled in his absence. He tended to his fireplace until it roared. Ezreal sat on one of the wine armchairs in silence as he watched.

“Why was he here so deep into night?”

Draven dusted off his hands and rose. Ezreal’s voice was low, a touch above a whisper. The flames threatened to drown him out.

“He was worried for you. He came to me for help,” Draven replied. He slipped off his coat and walked it to the iron stand by the front door. He returned to Ezreal seated still, one hand on the bookbag in his lap and the other hand tucked beneath his chin. He looked weary and worn.

“It was far too late for a polite visit,” Ezreal muttered.

“Consider yourself inconvenient to his politeness.” Draven sat on the matching chair beside him. Then quieter, “And to mine.” The fire warmed him up to his cheeks.

Ezreal exhaled with such weariness, Draven would have thought an imposter was before him. His youthful charm and exuberance had been traded in for a tired temperament. Draven thought through loops to not blame himself. He watched as Ezreal shifted the hand under his chin. His eyes shone of firelight.

“Did he ask you not to say?” Ezreal asked, almost amused, almost teasingly. As if he knew something Draven did not.

He watched the light flicker across Ezreal’s features, lighting up his downturned eyes in one moment, then his pinched mouth in the next. “Jayce,” Draven began, “is not like that.” He was beginning to grow weary himself and he liked it not.

“You seem to say as if you know him.”

“You seem to ask as if you don’t,” replied Draven.

The Piltovian kept his tongue. The fire crackled sharply and Draven feared it would drown what words would come.

“He refused me,” Draven said, airily.

Silence followed. He had hoped there would be surprise, maybe even some relief that Draven had not been bedding others in his absence. Draven had said it in provocation to Jayce, but he now wondered whether Ezreal had been finding himself with others. The thought unsettled him.

“I’m tired,” said Ezreal, his voice a touch above the popping of flames. He stood up without patience. “Show me this spare room of yours.”

Draven did not move from his seat. “You don’t believe me,” he said, taken aback.

“Is it so important that I do?”

Draven thought that to be unfair, but shrugged it away. “You may ask Jayce yourself.”

Ezreal was silent, but unwillingly this time. Words barely took shape on his lips when they would find themselves stutter to a stop. Draven took pity on him over his bruised ego. He gestured loosely upstairs, bidding him a good night. The young man nodded, still clutching at his book bag, and retired for the evening. Draven sat by the fire for moments longer.

—  
  
Draven laid awake and daunted. He tossed and turned until the winter sun began to glow through his curtains. He heard shuffling and movement past his door, suddenly galvanized until he remembered Ezreal had slept in the guest room. Such a room was largely unused—his visitors often shared his bed.

Draven rose and found a robe to wear. He left his bedroom and made way downstairs, surprised to not find Ezreal in the living room. Draven surely would have heard the front door open and shut, but in his sleepy stupor, it was possible he had simply missed it.

Undeterred, he made rounds to the kitchen and dining room, both empty. He crossed the hall to his study and found the door ajar.

“Didn’t know you read,” Ezreal said, voice still rough from slumber.

Draven leaned against the door frame, stilling himself from sagging with relief. Ezreal had a blanket wrapped around him as he looked upon the bookshelf stacked with thick editions on warfare and weaponry. Courtesy of Darius.

“It’s likely I don’t come across as a well read man,” he replied. Ezreal smiled. Draven wanted to consume it.

When the Piltovian turned back to make one final sweeping gaze of the room, he lingered on the desk. Draven largely ignored it, and the room altogether, due to the letter. It was all the more difficult to as the table top was tidy save for the piece of post.

“I best get going,” Ezreal said suddenly.

“Stay for breakfast.”

The blond paused and pursed his lips. “I shouldn’t.”

“I insist.”

He shook his head at that, annoyed that Draven didn’t understand. It helped not that Ezreal spoke no further. His shoulders were tense once again. Draven had no patience, even after the lifetime with Darius’ pointed silences, though that hardly served but make it just bearable for longer.

Bearable, unbearable, seemingly of little difference now. He liked not what the youth before him had become. Ezreal had used to be so much louder. He had been brash with laughter and enthused for clever slights. He used to speak so freely and so plainly of his mind and his thoughts.

Ezreal pulled the blanket tighter to his chest. “What do you want of me?” he asked Draven.

Now he had fallen to the habit of brevity and to the posing of questions, to of which Draven had too many answers to relay. He thought to offer one, then found another more befitting until he would land on another. He was at odds with himself so much he ended up saying nothing. Perhaps it was not finding the best way to say as much as it was avoiding saying anything at all.

In truth, Draven owed, in the very least, an apology. Ezreal must know that. “I thought I knew you,” Draven said instead.

“And I, you,” said Ezreal.

“What do you want of me, then?” Draven asked.

Ezreal made a face of disappointment at the question, his mouth pinching. “Why, I thought better of you,” he said, tone held light.

“Easy of a mistake to give me such credit,” Draven replied.

“This sounds unlike the Draven I know.”

“We did not have the chance.” He steeled himself, allowing time to pass. “I’m sorry to have taken that from you.”

“You’re sorry.” The Piltovian looked bemused at his words, tugging the blanket even tighter around his shoulders.

He stared past Draven, almost forlorn, almost lost, and he mumbled something so softly, Draven did not hear. Draven moved closer, hands coming to touch his arms. “Ezreal.”

“What am I to do, Draven?” he asked, pulling away sharply. “It is a callous game you play.”

“There is no such game.”

“Then you must to be stupid,” Ezreal snapped. It was with the much familiar tenacity that Draven knew him for and he dared to laugh despite himself.

Ezreal shot him a pointed look and appeared to begin a retort. Draven stopped him. “I promise you, I mean no harm. You,” he paused, searching, “reminded me of our better days.”

“Better days?” Ezreal asked. He peered up at him. “You adore me one day then cast me aside the next. Better days. What am I do to, Draven?”

Draven had few words to refute. Ezreal peered at him still. “I had been careless,” Draven admitted. “And foolish to have thought so little of you.”

“Yes, you had been,” Ezreal grumbled.

Draven wracked his mind for more to say. He had never been eloquent and such affair was foreign to him. He remained silent so long Ezreal offered him a rueful upturn of his lips.

“So what say you of this breakfast you offered?” he asked gently. But he did not wait for an answer. He upheaved himself from Draven’s hold and left for the kitchen.

Draven glared at the study in his absence.

—

After a moment’s breath, Draven left to follow Ezreal out. He had expected the Piltovian to have made it soundly to the kitchen by now, but instead he stood steadfast by the cold hearth, gaze fixated at the floor.

“Are these yours?” he asked. Draven moved closer, rounding past the furniture to find his discarded clothes in an unceremonious pool, glowing in the newfound morning sun.

Draven knelt down, at first to only gather his garments, but soon changed his mind and turned to start a new fire. Ezreal had the blanket draped over his shoulders still.

The flames were tended and fed a new log, reminding Draven at once that he would have to cut, or purchase, a new bundle soon. The winter was not set to leave the League for a few more months and his home was liked best with warmth. He would see to it.

He straightened up from the fireplace and found that Ezreal had moved closer in the interim. The yellow-orange glow lit the bright blond in his hair, brows, and lashes.

“Well?” His eyes did not stray from the flames.

Draven watched him carefully. “Well, what?”

“The clothing.” He gave a brief pause. “And the drinks.”

“They’re mine. From yesternight.” He hadn’t had the place of mind to have tidied. “The drink was also mine.”

Ezreal was unwavering. “There are two glasses.”

Draven recalled the night with unwarranted clarity. It made him irritable. “I’ve said he refused me. And the drink.”

Ezreal hummed in mild response, then turned to find a seat on an armchair. He looked warmer, at the very least. The blanket was no longer clenched tightly to his chest, but now slackened down to his elbows. “He has always enjoyed tea best.”

“And you’ve always complained I had none here.”

It earned him a small smile.

“Does Jayce complain?”

Draven frowned, quickly and deeply. “He has never been here so oft to complain.” Ezreal seem unconvinced.

“I’m not attacking your vigour.”

Evenly, carefully, in the utmost of sure tone: “You’re making untrue assumptions, Ezreal.”

The blond gestured vaguely around him. “I have only parsed through what was given.”

Draven shook his head, a ripple of frustration cutting through the wake, “Have you always vexed me so?”

Ezreal gave a moment of thought. He looked towards the fire. “No, I suppose you had never given me the chance to.”

Draven let silence swallow them. The firelight flickered and flailed across the room. It was a foolish thought, but Draven was never one to second guess himself, nor doubt, regardless of what might customarily be best. That was below him, after all.

“Allow me to, then,” he said.

Ezreal pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’d be just as stupid as you.”

“You wound me.”

The blond laughed. It was mirthless and strange and unlike him. “Would it not be just?” 

Draven pulled himself down into the adjacent armchair. The fire crackled between them. He adjusted his weight, pressing back and stretching out his legs, hands laced across his stomach. He was weary from the sleepless night and this forlorn talk. It was beginning to become bothersome.

“I’d much rather embrace you now,” Draven muttered. “This exhausts me.”

“Such words,” Ezreal replied.

“You mock my intentions, but I have been forthcoming.”

Ezreal scowled. It made him look his years. “I have learned not to bend to your whims, to your intentions.” He tugged the blanket taut over his shoulders once more in contempt of the fire.

“Yet you’re here, still.” Draven knew he was pushing. He couldn’t convince himself to stop. “If not to my whims, then to whose?”

Ezreal looked away from him, eyes rolling with a tired grievance. Then, softly behind a thin veil of anger, “My naïveté.”

“Is that what it is?” Draven asked.

“It is what it feels like.”

“I have no intentions to deceive you.”

“Then why go about…”

He pulled a face.

“Ezreal.”

“I’ve said much.”

The blond stood, the blanket falling behind and left in the seat.

“Ezreal.”

Draven reached out and gripped his wrist tight. Sentiments stalled on the way to his mouth. He said nothing as Ezreal stared at him.

“Breakfast,” he managed. Ezreal stared at him still.

“No,” he replied. “It would be unwise.”

“You would be wrong.”

“Wrong,” Ezreal repeated in a breath, so stone-like in his stupor. Slowly, argument flickered alight in his eyes and he drew a sharp breath when Draven stalled him with a quicker thought,

“But I was wrong first. I was wrong.”

Draven stood, his height casting a long shadow. “I was wrong to have levied doubt against you,” said he. His hand held his wrist still. “I am sorry to have thought so little of you. You are not very little to me.”

“Such words,” Ezreal said again, looking curious.

“So what say you?”

“Do you ask me for honesty?”

“Yes, for honesty.”

Ezreal looked down at his hold. “Then you should perhaps let me go.”

Draven was hesitant, but more reluctant still. He slowly released his grip. His thoughts danced dangerously around having to grab all of him, to engulf his being, to possess him, to keep him in place. He banished them as they came, but no more quickly than that.

Once free, “Do you take me for a child?” Ezreal demanded. His tone was far less pointed than the words, but it soothed little of his nerves.

“No,” replied Draven. He longed to take him again. The hold had him still, had him soft.

“Do you suppose me to forget?”

“To forgive.”

“You ask much of me.”

Perhaps. Draven had nothing to say and so he shrugged, hands splayed out to his sides, showing what he had left to offer.

Ezreal looked disappointed.

This was unlike him. “What would you have me do?” asked Draven. “What would you have me say?” He cared little of the grip he now had on Ezreal’s arms. “What would convince you of my regret?” Draven continued. His voice was raised, generously so. “What words would compel you? What would sway your hurt?”

“I know not,” replied Ezreal, bewildered.

“You know very well. Tell me,” urged Draven.

“You ask for remedies I have not yet begun to ponder, Draven,” Ezreal replied, pulling away. Draven did not soften his hold in the slightest.

“You only need to tell me what you want, Ezreal.”

Ezreal gave one final, fruitless tug at the grip on his arms, before he stood still. He breathed deeply. And through gritted teeth, “I want to know why.”

“It was a mistake,” replied Draven. “I was simply wrong. Just an error in judgement.”

It seemed to have quelled him enough so Draven stood slowly and folded the boy unto himself. No protests as of yet. He pressed his face to his hair and smelled the rain and sweat and soap as his hands made ways across his back and held tight.

“But that isn’t why,” said Ezreal, muffled.

Draven lifted his fingers and ran them through the tangled morning locks of Ezreal’s hair.

“Must we linger? My longing for you was greater than I had believed.”

He felt Ezreal’s voice rumble against his chest:

“What longing?”

“What longing?” Draven repeated stupidly.

“Longing, Draven,” he said, impatient. “What longing do you claim? Always preening about the men and the women at your doorstep, awaiting your beck and call. What longing do you speak of?”

“For you,” Draven replied, senseless and confused.

“You only need me when you want me,” said Ezreal. “How long before you tire of me? And how long until you decide to summon me back? To what end?”

Draven marveled at his resolve.

“I had never tired of you,” Draven replied. He leaned to kiss the top of his head.

“Then what was it?”

Draven gently worked the blond twists until his fingers slid free. He felt Ezreal breathing with measure.

“I made a mistake,” he said, again.

“You take me for a fool and I suppose you take me for yours.”

“You are no one’s fool,” Draven said quietly. “You are no fool at all. I had only been heartless.”

Ezreal gave a small exhale, but did not move, did not pull from him. “Heartless," he murmured, is what you insist.” His inhale was slow. “Must you withhold your heart? You have all of me. Have I no claim to you?”

Draven spent no more than a second’s thought. “Lay your claim.”

“You offer so easily.”

“A decision made easily.”

Ezreal lifted his chin to rest on his chest. “Cast aside easily,” he added with a smile. It shone bleakly at best.

“No. You misunderstand me.”

“Have I?”

He was a bitter boy, but no less entitled to it. Draven pressed his palm to the nape of his neck and guided him to a kiss. It was chaste and Ezreal kept from his eyes. He was languid in his hold, but did not bend. Draven kissed him again, anyways.

—

Draven made them a modest meal of sour bread, sausage, and soft egg. He’d have to venture for groceries, if this ever were to be made a routine.

He made mental notes to buy tea. The hearth crackled in the main hall and he remembered firewood. Bread, eggs, and meat. Perhaps milk and cheese. Cured cuts, if the selection were to be good. He would purchase produce, of whatever was freshest. He had prodded around the pantry when cooking and found it somewhat stocked, for his tastes at the very least.

“I will be going to the market today,” Draven said. He finished off the last of his sour bread and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Any requests? Something for dinner?”

It was a morning made quiet in comparison. Ezreal bit and chewed slowly. He looked sheepish. “I should return home. I have errands I ought to tend to.”

“Still, perhaps for a meal in the near future,” Draven shrugged. Ezreal eyed him.

“I am happy with anything.”

“Then there must be a tea, or teas, you’d like me to stock. I have been made aware it is lacking here.”

“I have no preference. Tea is tea.”

_How precocious of him_ , Draven thought idly. “No other requests then?” Ezreal shook his head.

—

Draven had a taste for admiration, and a bigger appetite for idolatry, but seldom the stomach for servitude. It brought the bitter taste of a bitter past entrenched in the slums of Noxus.

At a time, once the brothers had made their stakes into the Noxus consciousness, they had servants tend to the cleaning, shopping, and to the errands of the everyday. It had left them ample hours to work and hone the skills their reputations held best.

While scarce, their presence in the home, in the brothers’ space of quiet and seclusion, had Darius peeved and piqued to order them out. Draven had neither complained nor objected. It was not as if they were incapable of caring for themselves.

—

At the market, he made way first to the meat vendors, uncaring of whether or not he caught eyes. He had worn warm clothes under a cloak of dark grey fur, lined leather boots, with his hair fastened low behind his head, and looking more banal than his tastes would have him be. Though recognition would follow him still, even without the armour and paint and glint of axes, he found that common folk often astounded him.

Draven browsed the selection with prospect, finding that the stalls were plenty. Between the hunters’ stands laid the smell of copper and earth and, without specificity, it reminded him of home.

He purchased lean cuts of venison and a number of cured meats. The pickings presented his preference of smoked to salted, but certainly spiced to either. Down the row were few farmers selling wheels of cheeses. He picked out one, a small wheel, creamy white in colour. He then bought a dense loaf of bread from the town’s baker and with a half-formed thought, he pointed out the custard tarts to add to the order.

His pack was beginning to fill, and while to carry heavy weight was of no difficulty, he was beginning to grow bored of this chore. He picked out a few fresh fruits and vegetables before he made his journey home.

—

Midway into arranging the groceries in his pantry, he was struck suddenly with an irksome realization. He heaved a sigh, finished the job, and left for the town once more.

—

Draven entered the shop and most firstly smelled the dry aroma of herbs and flowers. There were large burlap bags filled to burst with bits of dark tea leaves, and more still below, behind, and above the counter.

The shopkeeper was an older woman and she barely paid him any mind as she bent over a large ledger of sorts, writing promptly with a stout quill in a gnarled hand.

“Have a look around,” she said, not looking up. “You won’t find a finer selection elsewhere.”

Draven looked around. He gathered himself a view of the shop and found nothing of note. Everything looked alike.

She blew at the ink of the page before looking over to him. “Nothing yet?” she asked, a brow raised as she straightened from her handiwork.

“It’s not for me.”

“It’s not for you,” she hummed. “Is there a preference? Green, white, or black? Herbal blend? Sweet florals?”

Draven approached the counter, frowning into the air. “He tells me he has no preference.”

A silence followed as she lifted her eyes and looked him over. She studied him so long, Draven wondered if it was because she doubted his claims. It began to grow uncomfortable. Acute attention was of no issue to him, yet her gaze unnerved him, and he grew restless before her and all the dried leaves.

Finally she spoke, and she spoke with a question: “Noxian?”

“Not him,” replied Draven.

“But you?”

Draven had no mind of why she possibly had asked. “Yes.”

The shopkeep nodded. “I’ll put together a small arrangement. You may find where his tastes lie.”

He leaned against the counter and watched as she puttered about, taking handfuls of this and that, weighing them and measuring them with practiced hands. He hardly knew of any of it served to do. She placed the mixtures into four separate silk bags and pushed them across to him.

He paid and took the bags home without even so much as a gaze inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kudos are appreciated. I never knew there would be an audience at all! It's a rather niche pairing. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Zjol.


	4. Four

It was deep into the afternoon by the time he returned. Ezreal was sitting on his doorstep with a mood to the semblance of dejection. He was leaning with his back to the door, his knapsack slumped between his knees. His hair was dirty and matted and the stench of sweat clung to him like salt to the sea. 

Draven wrinkled his nose. Ezreal gave him a bemused look, but said nothing. 

“You’re filthy,” said Draven, pulling out his keys. The boy slowly pushed himself from the ground and followed him in. Upclose in passing, Draven could smell the musk of earth, the tang of iron, and the pull of spent magicks, almost akin to burnt hair. 

Draven tossed his pack onto the nearest table and shouldered off his cloak. Briskly he took to upstairs and began drawing a hot bath. 

“Come to the bath, Ezreal,” he said. He heard nothing in return; no rustling, no movement, no voice. He made another attempt, louder this time: “Ezreal.” It came out more forceful than he had meant. 

As he waited, he searched for bottles of soaps and oils and tipped drops of each until it filled the room with scent. Suds formed under the run of water and the quick swirl by Draven’s hand. He looked up at the appearance from the corner of his eye. Ezreal was without his coat, goggles, and gauntlet as he stood in the doorway. 

“Come,” Draven said again. Ezreal stepped closer, still with a weary expression. 

“Must you beckon me like a pet?”

Ignoring him, “Do you mean to bathe in all that?” asked Draven. He tugged at the hem of his soiled shirt. Ezreal shot him a look of annoyance, but swiftly undressed with unbefitting composure. Draven picked up the discarded clothes and set them aside as Ezreal climbed into the tub. “They’re damp,” Draven observed. “How long have you been out in wet wear?

“Not long.” Ezreal settled into the water, a hiss catching on his lips as he lowered himself. 

“You’ve had a match today.”

Draven leaned over to shut off the faucet. The metal handle was warm under his touch. The room was now in a hot haze from the water, lushly scented, and pleasant. Ezreal watched him under heavy lids. “Yes,” he replied, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to rest. 

Draven moved to the fore of the tub. “And how did you fare?” He rolled his sleeves and reached to dip his hands into the soapy water. It smelled of juniper and wildflowers. He began working his blond locks into a lather, pulling out bits of dirt as he combed with his fingers. 

He heard Ezreal stifle a sigh. “I have some regrets.”

Draven nodded, though Ezreal wasn’t looking. “Demanding, then.”

“Somewhat.” There was undue humour in his tone. 

Draven continued to run his hands through his hair, fingertips brushing his scalp, until the suds were white again. “Your hair has grown.” He straightened out a strand and noted it reached his shoulders. 

“You’re one to talk,” Ezreal murmured. He sounded halfway to slumber. “Your face is covered in it.”

Amused, “Do you hold objections to my beard?” He cupped a hand to catch bath water, moving to wash the soap out from the blond strands. 

Ezreal yawned. “Does it matter?” 

Draven supposed it did not. He wiped at Ezreal’s nose and cheeks. It was not only dirt, but also of dried blood, crusted and crumbly. Ezreal flinched against his touch, sitting up in the water. Draven had a sudden view of his shoulder and back, mottled in new bruises. Both elbows were scraped raw and bleeding in parts. It was a sight hardly new to Draven. They were not life threatening in the least. Uncomfortable, at worst. Draven left briefly to retrieve a small washcloth and returned to finished his work.

—

Ezreal gave a sharp intake of breath when Draven pressed salve to his cuts and scrapes. 

“It burns,” Ezreal muttered. 

“It barely burns,” Draven replied. He applied new dressing to the worst of the wounds as Ezreal sat still and motionless on his bed, hair still dripping slow rivulets. Draven thought to, wanted to, ask why the youth had decided to skip the medical after his match. There were much more able healers at the League. Perhaps Ezreal had thought the injuries were less than severe. He’d be correct, but the healers would have better tended to the wounds of his arms. 

Draven lifted an elbow and gave it a stern look. It was hardly serious, but ripe for irritation. He smoothed a layer of the salve, much to Ezreal’s chagrin. He repeated the same to the other side. Once satisfied with his own handiwork, Draven began to pack up his supplies; he rerolled the dressings, folded the gauze, and twisted the lid back on the tin of poultice. 

“Thank you.”

Draven peered at Ezreal, who was studying his bandaged arm with mild interest. His hair was still slick and fell in dark swirls over his eyes. There were fat wet drops in a ring around him on the sheets. Draven felt as though he should be bothered by it. 

He put the supplies into a box and stood from the bed. “Of course,” he said, and left to put the items away. 

—

Ezreal came downstairs. He was dressed in clean linen and his hair, while damp, no longer dripped. He looked just as weary as before, but now clean and dry and, Draven hoped, more comfortable. 

He found Draven in the kitchen, chopping carrots into coins. “I put the kettle on,” said Draven. Ezreal entered the room with unheard hesitancy. Draven gestured loosely to the stove. Four silk bags and a teapot laid on the table beside it. Draven thought he heard a soft snort, but he knew most definite Ezreal had rolled his eyes behind his back. “I delegate the choosing to you. Go on.”

There was a stretch of silence before Ezreal made any motion. Draven heard the rustling of silk before the tinkling of a spoon to porcelain. He then heard a scrape of wood against the stone floor. He resisted turning to look. 

Draven moved the cut vegetables from board to pot, stirring idly as his mind drifted. He was becoming disconcerted with how mundane he felt, but more disconcerted still with how long it took him to notice. He felt unlike himself. And the thought displeased him. 

Draven broke quick from his reverie when the room began to fill with the smells of cooked onion and herbs. He peered over his shoulder. Ezreal was gazing blearily elsewhere as he sat by the small kitchen table, his head propped up with a folded hand. As delicate of a state he looked, he was neither too hot nor cold to the touch. Draven wondered if he was under another ailment at all. Perhaps only exhaustion. 

As the pot of stew simmered, Draven turned to slice the bread into thick pieces. He plated and brought both to the table, startling Ezreal. 

“We’re eating here?” he asked. 

Draven set the plates down slowly. “Would you rather us eat a table length apart?” 

Ezreal claimed a plate and pulled it towards himself. “No,” he said. “It’s fine.”

Draven nodded at that and went to ladle stew into two bowls. He sat down and they ate in a silence too solemn for his liking. 

—

Draven brought the tea out to the main hall and he sat down before the fire. Ezreal had heated more water and added more tea to steep. 

With no inkling of the whatever was brewed in his cup, Draven sipped at it. It tasted like tea, like any kind of tea, but there must have been something nice about it, because Ezreal refilled his cup often. 

The evening was just about to set into a deep night, but despite all that had transpired, Draven did not feel compelled to sleep. Ezreal settled in the armchair beside him, a tankard in his hands. To date, Draven had no tea cups to speak of, but he felt any of his glass and ceramic wares were more than suitable for the job. 

They sat in company of the flames and Draven felt due déjà vu of all this. Too many nights forlorn in front of his fireplace, he felt. Most unbecoming. Ezreal poured himself more tea from the teapot between them, and as if he heard his thoughts, “Don’t spare yourself hard drink for my sake,” he said, words punctuating the air. 

“Tea is just as well,” Draven replied. It was mostly of truth. 

—

Draven took time to bathe. He had little want to spend the night laying foolishly awake in bed. 

Once cleansed and dried, he stood before the looking glass and lathered soap into a dense foam to spread over the hairs on his jaw. With his shaving blade, he began to shear off the beard. He had already grown accustomed to it, but he needed it not. 

It took some time to avoid his moustache, which he were to keep, but with a razor’s edge and deft hand, his face now again resembled the Draven he knew himself to be. Prided on himself to be. 

He washed off the remaining bits of lather and stray hairs with a cloth, before he left for his bedroom. 

—

Neither surprised nor disappointed, Ezreal was already swathed in his sheets. Draven supposed the guest room fit him unwell. 

He plucked fresh sleep clothes from his dresser and pulled them on unhurried. He thought to light the fireplace in the room, but cared not for the chore. It was near pitch black when he climbed beneath the covers and found Ezreal drowsy, but awake. 

“Sleep,” Draven murmured, adjusting the blanket over his body. “Regain your strength.”

“How can I, with your lumbering around,” he murmured back. 

Draven kept his laugh down. “Come,” he said. 

It was perhaps a poor choice of a word. Ezreal was tentative, but he shifted until Draven was able to gather him against his chest. He pressed his nose to the top of the blond head, smelling him between the juniper and wildflowers. 

—

Draven blinked awake to darkness. The sun had not even begun to breach the night. 

Even slow breaths fell against his shoulder and he was pleased to find Ezreal still pressed to him. Slumber had been uneventful as of yet. Good, he thought. He closed his eyes and settled his head back. 

—

He awoke again, though to a young dawn. The first rays of morning lit the room through slits between the curtains, as the air in the room chilled him. He felt some remorse to have had left the hearth cool. Ezreal must have had similar thoughts,

“I had forgotten how cold it gets here.” His voice was rough hewn from slumber.

“Does your dwelling not fall cold without fire?” Draven asked. He had never been. 

“My home here is sizes smaller,” Ezreal replied through a yawn, “It does not need much for heat.”

Draven deliberated on asking about the one in Piltover, though he was never one to divulge in his own life in Noxus. He simply let the question drift from him and fade to the back of his mind. Draven rolled onto his side and swept a cursory hand over the blankets and furs until something vaguely human took shape. 

“Have some care,” Ezreal grumbled. “You’ll tear the wrappings.”

Draven pulled the boy towards himself, closing him in with an arm.  “Hardly,” he replied, “I bandaged you myself.” He touched his hair, brushing locks back from his face. His cheeks were cold. Draven leaned to kiss him. 

“Heartless of you,” Ezreal muttered when done, “to do that with your morning mouth.” 

“Then you’d best join me in rising,” Draven said, half in jest. He truly did not want to leave the warmth of the bed, but the day had already risen and he liked not to stray too far behind. 

“Heartless,” Ezreal repeated. Draven willed himself to uncover and sit. Ezreal made no motion to do the same. 

“Perhaps you should stay then,” Draven hummed, stretching. “I should return in an hour and we could then break our fast.”

“An improvement,” Ezreal replied sleepily. 

Draven left the bed and crouched to light the hearth. He grew a flame and fed it logs before preparing for the day. 

—

When he returned from his morning exercise, he found the flames feeble, but alive. While his bedroom was now much too warm for his own liking, he quickly saw that Ezreal was still deep in sleep, blankets wrapped close around him, as if the air was still frigid. 

Draven watched him with something like a bated breath; Ezreal laid on his side, hair in waves of disarray, radiantly golden where the sparse slivers of sunlight reached. His neck sloped to a slender shoulder beneath the sheets. His fingers were curled slightly inwards, his arms folded gently in front of him. His expression was relaxed into bliss and without knowledge of the world. 

Dangerous thoughts formed about Draven, urges pulsed and pulled him to seize the moment, to still it, to have, to hold. He wanted, for a instant, to detach this Ezreal from all, to preserve this sleep, to preserve this time, down to the folds of his shirt and the placement of every blond strand. He needn’t even breathe. Draven shook his head. 

Instead, he knelt by the hearth in reverence and bowed his head to tend the flames. He left for a quick bath as the full fire stirred. 

—

Draven was redressed and clean when he returned to his bedroom again. He found himself hungry and his stomach showed no shyness to the idea. Ezreal was still intertwined in the sheets, but had lifted his head at the footsteps, no less languidly than he was in slumber. 

“Good morning,” greeted Draven, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. “Though you must have missed most of it by now.” 

Ezreal pulled the blankets tighter. “Much more likely the morning had missed me,” he said, voice scratched from sleep. 

“Surely you have slept enough by now,” said Draven. In lieu of a reply, Ezreal burrowed himself deeper with a flourish of a fur thrown over him. It amused Draven, but he gave no tell. He waited a moment. “At least have some food.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Pitiful,” said Draven, “to have the custard tarts go to waste.”

“Draven, the executioner, buying sweet custard tarts?” came another muffled reply. “My, you have changed.”

Draven propped himself up and reached for the blankets. There were a great many number of covers and he knelt to dig through. He stopped when he found Ezreal’s stare. “Come down for breakfast,” Draven said, peering down at him. 

“Not hungry.” He repeated, almost petulant. 

“Why do you suppose that is?” Draven murmured. 

Ezreal gave him only expectant look. His eyes were dry and bleary, but the soft squint carried a piercing note. “Feel me, then.”

Draven felt a warm rush down to his underbelly, and while he was never one to become abashed, he felt this was hardly the time. Ezreal bent his head until his brows brushed Draven’s fingertips. 

There was a heat to him and Draven quickly clamped a palm over his forehead. He was pale beneath his hand, almost ashen, and his lips were hardly hued. 

“You’re under a fever.” Draven hadn’t intended to sound as breathless as he did. 

Ezreal hummed. “Yes. Keen, aren’t you.”

Draven sat back on the bed. “How long have you been harbouring it?”

Ezreal watched him under a weary gaze. “I suppose I haven’t felt so lively as of late.”

Draven nodded and arranged the sheets to cover him once more. “You must have caught it in those damned damp clothes,” he said. 

“Perhaps,” said Ezreal. 

“And you thought not to tell me at once?”

Ezreal had the sincerity to look miffed, “I just noticed it now. My head hurts and you’re hardly a help with all these questions.”

Draven responded by resting the back of his hand to his forehead again. Most certainly, he was too hot to the touch. Draven moved off the bed and gave a sweep over the room, to see if there were to be anything else to be tended to, before he left for the kitchen. 

—

A small meal of leftover stew, warmed bread, and custard tarts were brought up on a tray. Ezreal looked no worse for wear, but not in the least bit better either. 

“Water first,” said Draven. Ezreal paused, a hand outstretched in the air. He looked a bit to argue, but eventually said nothing and brought the cup of water to his lips. 

Draven had pulled a chair up from the kitchen and sat bedside to eat his breakfast. Ezreal was quiet for a long while as he picked at his own. 

“I think we ought to bring a League healer to have a look at you.”

Ezreal didn’t look from his bowl of stew. “A healer? Here?” He sipped slowly at his spoon.

“Yes. The sooner, the better.” Draven replied as he pulled apart his bread and dipped the pieces into his bowl. Ezreal must have had unruly thoughts crowding his mind to stop his eating. He stared past the stew. 

“It’s nothing more than a cold,” he said. “Give me a night or two of rest, I will be fine.”

With a great frown, “Do you fear the healers?”

“No,” came a sharp reply. 

“The League?”

“No.” 

Draven fell back in his chair. He was at odds about it. “But you’re aversed to it?”

Ezreal glared at him from over his bowl and said nothing. It spelled his answer well enough, though it hardly gave a reason for it. Draven didn’t press on. 

—

Draven cleared the plates and bowls and cutlery, bringing the trayful down to the kitchen. He set them in the sink and stood still for a while. He thought of the great many other things he would much rather pursue than staying bedside for a petulant youth who kept secrets too tight. Draven thought to spar with the other champions that were like to be there—Katarina, Talon, or even Sion; all the sharp and adept blade wielders from his own home state. 

He stood and contemplated until he felt himself about to ease into madness. He drew a full breath to expel slow and went back upstairs. 

—

Draven stopped at the doorway and watched Ezreal’s laying form. He had shuffled back down beneath the sheets, facing opposite. His chest moved evenly and slowly to the tune of his breaths. He seemed to be awake. 

The Noxian pushed into the room to kneel on the bed. He waited, too patiently, for the Piltovian to turn his head to him. It took a great moment, but a moment nonetheless. The dipping weight of his knee had made his presence evident and known, and Ezreal gazed back at him, all smooth and cool to the dismay of his feverish complexion. 

Draven could just about smell the sick on him. It came as a certain note of acrid sweetness, accompanied by the sour of sweat. He only wished he had sensed it sooner. “I suppose you want to be left to rest,” said Draven. It was what he had gleaned from the morning. Ezreal had been decidedly prickly, though most of it Draven had ascribed to his fever. He touched Ezreal’s forehead, to reclaim that thought. His skin was still scorching. “How do you feel now?” 

Ezreal gave him a weak smile. It did not reach his eyes. “As if my bones are slipping from my flesh,” he said. “I’m sore in places I have yet to move.”

Draven moved his fingers down to his jaw and bent his head down to the crook of his neck. The feverish sweetness was strongest there, it claimed his skin, and Draven could barely trace the bath oils anymore. 

He felt a hand brush his cheek and he lifted his eyes. Ezreal was keeping back a frown, his mouth pursed with mulish, as he watched his movements. A retort sat taut his lips.

A sensible man would reply, but Draven dipped down to kiss him deeply. When they parted, Ezreal gasped for breath with an incredulous expression on his face. 

“I’m unwell,” he managed. 

Draven shrugged and reached to pull him in again, but Ezreal’s hands came up in protest on his shoulders. He looked put out as he glared at the wall beyond. “You’ll get sick,” he muttered. It amused Draven. 

“I won’t,” he said, bringing a thumb to his bottom lip. He pressed and pulled and Ezreal pushed him away. Draven allowed him. “We’ve already shared a bed. What do you fear?”

In the silence that followed, Draven took hold of the boy and coaxed him for another kiss. He was utterly warm. Draven wove a hand into his hair and gripped tight to the base, and ravished his mouth with his. Ezreal was pliant and radiated a heat that felt like sun against his skin. Draven wanted to embrace all of him, wanted to engulf him, take him. 

He was pliant to a point. He pushed again, and Draven, now with some reluctance, leaned back to peer at him. “Allow me some air,” Ezreal said, irritably. Draven did. He placed small kisses to his neck while he waited, brushing his nose to the warmth. He savoured the sensation and took some time to notice Ezreal’s hands had slid from his shoulders to his arms. 

His hold was tight and Draven stopped. “Ezreal.”

The blond was turned from him. “Draven,” he mustered. 

Draven breathed a sigh and brought both hands up to his face, thumbs grazing flushed cheeks. His blue eyes flickered, as if trailing fleeting thoughts. 

“You need only ask,” Draven reminded him. He had meant to keep the chiding from his tone, he truly did. The time for banter and teasing had passed. Ezreal frowned a mild frown, one that barely furrowed his brows and pinched his lips. 

“Ask what?” 

Draven pressed him down to the bedding, and tucked the covers over them both. Ezreal barely took notice. “Ask to stop,” Draven answered simply. He laid beside him, propped on a folded elbow. His other arm across Ezreal’s chest. 

Ezreal said nothing. Draven had learned to expect nothing more. His fingers combed through blond hairs as he watched a course of emotions pass Ezreal’s face. It was irksome, but Draven made no mention. He leaned to plant a kiss on his forehead, hoping it would spark closure. He found none. 

“Tell me,” Draven murmured. “You are unlike yourself. Tell me why that is.”

“In what way am I unlike myself?” he asked back. 

Joyless. Distant. “Reserved,” said Draven. 

“I am ill,” Ezreal replied, surly. “Forgive the reluctance to spread my legs.”

Draven was taken aback. “You think that of me?”

The flash of annoyance was pointed and sharp. And it answered him well enough. 

A hand came to rest on Draven’s jaw. Fingers slid down to the short hairs on his chin, as a thumb brushed his moustache. Ezreal looked concerted on the effort. “Do men take men in Noxus?” he asked suddenly. 

Draven thought through his answer carefully. Ezreal noted it. 

“Sometimes,” Draven replied. He cupped Ezreal’s hand in his and brought it down to kiss the palm. 

Ezreal was not so easily distracted. “It is celebrated, then.”

Draven winced, but had meant to keep it inward. It is a subject he had once thought himself removed. He wanted not to think of it. “It happens, whether the state celebrates it or not.”

He pulled his hand from Draven. “Is it a shame?”

Draven sat up and leaned to the headboard, a hand coming up to scrub his face. He had already enough of this talk. “Must we discuss these matters, Ezreal?” he asked. 

He dropped his hand and found Ezreal laying on his stomach, staring at him with a forlorn wistfulness he knew to be beckoning. His cheek rested on crossed arms and his hair was rightly mussed from the tousling. 

“It is a shame, then,” Ezreal said. 

“It is no shame,” Draven replied. Ezreal cocked his head. 

“No?” he asked. 

“No,” Draven answered. 

“How many have you taken?”

“How many have you?” 

Ezreal pursed his lips. 

“Don’t like being asked that, do you?” Draven laughed. 

“I figured you would take any chance to gloat,” he said, almost goodnaturedly. 

“I would,” Draven replied. “And I do.” He reached to smooth Ezreal’s hair from his face. “But you are asking from a place of worry.”

“And that stops you?”

Draven gave him a long look. “Yes. You mean much to me.” 

“Then tell me,” Ezreal pressed. 

The Noxian thought it dubious at best. “Why do you feel that you must know?”

“You are withholding something from me and I am made curious. Tell me.”

Draven heaved a great sigh and moved to pull Ezreal into his arms. The Piltovian made no objections, looping his around Draven’s neck. He peered up at him with patience.  “You must bear in mind I have some years on you…”

“An innumerable amount, yes, how could I forget it?”

Draven frowned with indignance. Ezreal passed a wry smile. 

“I have had my share of sharing beds.”

“Yes?”

Draven made a loose gesture, at a loss. “I have no number to give you.”

“Chance a guess,” Ezreal protested. 

“All of the past, Ez,” Draven cooed. “It is hardly a concern now. Least of all yours.”

“How so?” 

The Noxian was listless. 

He was, but a man with desires. It was held to some esteem; the pleasure was a pleasure, and he did not shy from boasts. But here presented before him was a green boy, in the most generous diction, a boy who was like to embody jealousy and spite. He has already, and Draven wanted no repeat of that.

He thought of none other reason for Ezreal to be so steadfast. He has had lovers who would fight, even more so when he would offer to share. Draven was confounded always. After all, he was not so selfish to deny the world his body, and they should be glad. 

Ezreal prodded his nose with a finger and drew him back. “How so?” he repeated. Draven tried to place a kiss on the fingertip, missing only as Ezreal pulled his hand away, seemingly more sprightly than in the morning. 

“Because they’re of no concern now. How else shall I say it?” asked Draven. 

Ezreal watched him for a cursed moment, his blue eyes bright and flitting. Draven thought to pluck them and preserve them for study in full. He shook his head. 

“What concern would it be?” Ezreal demanded. 

“What concern do you have?” 

Ezreal had no quick reply ready. He pressed his mouth to a thin line, his neck rising in colour not seen to by his fever. 

“What flusters you so, Ezreal?” Draven asked. He ran a hand up and down his back, as if to soothe secrets from him. Ezreal squirmed. 

“Stop it.” It came out soft and Draven was tempted to swallow him whole. Though ultimately contrary to his ways, he complied and stilled his hand.  Ezreal turned to tuck hair behind his ears, ears as pink as his neck. Draven fought to keep from taking a bite. 

Ezreal finally faced him again, pressing his cheek to his shoulder, still so sinfully warm. 

“Well?” Draven asked. “Shall I finally leave you to rest?”

“You have your uses,” Ezreal replied, eyes sliding shut. Draven took it to maneuver them both down to a more comfortable position. 

Time passed justly in the embrace. The Piltovian’s breath slowed until it was deep and even. Draven let it settle before untangling himself from the bed. 

—

He was in his study, managing the affairs of paperwork and post, when footsteps were heard padding down the stairs. 

There were sounds of slow steps past the door until the gait faded to the distance, before circling back again. The door creaked softly open behind him.

“How long have I been asleep?” 

Draven twisted around in his chair. Ezreal looked just as drowsy as when he had left him, perhaps even more so. He beckoned him in. “Only for few hours, no longer.” He took hold of his hand and pulled him to his lap.

Sleepily, Ezreal acceded and leaned heavily to his chest. “Hm,” Ezreal replied, eyes closed. 

“Doesn’t seem as though you should have left the bed,” Draven murmured. He pressed an idle hand to his forehead. He was still warm, but no longer scorchingly so. It was good enough for Draven. He turned back to the papers. 

He worked for some time before Ezreal stirred again. Draven had to stop to allow him to stretch; he leaned back in his chair as lanky limbs reached and lengthened. 

“Better?” Draven asked, amused. Ezreal sighed against him, before eyeing the desktop. 

“Are you reading?”

Draven kept from being aggrieved by the incredulity in his voice. 

“Yes,” he replied. “It is a nasty business.”

Ezreal sat up, his head blocking Draven’s view. “These are Noxian papers.”

“Yes, and you are keeping me from them,” Draven protested, craning to press his chin to his shoulder. 

Ezreal turned to face him, a frown deepset. His mouth had a dismal downturn and he looked almost hurt. “Why do you have Noxian papers to answer to?”

Draven thought it best to begin gathering the sheets and slide them into their envelopes. He had finished most, anyhow. He worked silently under the doleful gaze of the boy who perched so solemnly on his lap, like he had overlooked this man was of Noxus. 

“Draven. What are these papers for?”

Exhausting, this youth. “Have you forgotten I work for the state?”

“You work for the League now,” he blurted. 

“I am lending my expertise to the League. I still serve Noxus, Ezreal,” said Draven, sounding more patient than he felt. “One does not oust the other.”

The boy was aggravating in his silence. 

Then, “If Noxus were to call?” 

“I would return,” Draven admitted. “Though I would first inform you, if you were so inclined.” He would at least have the good graces to give some word of departure. He was not so heartless. 

“Would you fight?”

Draven was without certainty on what was meant. “I answer to Noxus,” he replied. “I would do what she asks.”

There was a light to Ezreal’s eyes that flickered, then dimmed. His gaze fell from Draven and he stood abruptly, nearly swaying on his own two feet. 

“Come now,” Draven murmured. “Would you not answer if Piltover were to call?” He reached to touch his wrist and felt a quiet sense of satisfaction when Ezreal did not pull from him. 

“No,” he replied. “I wouldn’t.”

Draven brought his wrist to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his pulse. “Not even if she were in need?”

Almost angrily, “No.” 

It was most curious. Draven could hardly fathom, let alone understand the sentiment. Draven would fight for Noxus, kill for Noxus, and die for Noxus. He would prefer not to do the latter, but if it were to come down to it, truly, utterly, inevitably, Draven was prepared to shed blood. 

Ezreal was adamant, it seemed, to not even heed the call. 

“I ran from home,” Ezreal muttered. 

Ah, and so here it was. Draven listened intently, but Ezreal said nothing more of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was under a very bad fever for a week and a half in July. It was more painful than I had remembered fevers could be and it spurred me enough to write a bit about it. The first few days or so, it felt like my flesh was being cooked right off my bones; but in the days following in recovery, I was able to draft up bits and pieces of what eventually became the ignition of The Morning Star.
> 
> Thank you for your readership. Zjol.


	5. Five

It was after supper and, while it took the convincing that Draven felt wasn’t needed, he managed to ease Ezreal back into the tub for a bath. 

“You smell of sick and sweat,” said Draven, mixing fragrant oils to the soapy waters. Ezreal watched it all with a mild expression. 

“You are a man of decadence,” Ezreal declared, almost scathingly, though he did not object when Draven began to wet his hair. He  worked slow, raising suds with gentle circles on his scalp. His fingertips brushed over and over, languidly, like he was doing a slow deed of washing dishes. Draven took care to keep soap from rolling downwards to Ezreal’s eyes or ears, catching drips with a deft hand. This bathing, it came from a need of comfort. Draven knew very well from days without it and he knew such luxury was fleeting. “How do you fare now?” he asked.

In a soft mutter, “Better,” replied Ezreal. He bent his head back into Draven’s hands and peered up. His eyes shone so softly in the light of the oil lamp, so tenderly, that Draven thought he had simply imagined it. “Is Noxus nice?” asked Ezreal, quietly. Draven was taken aback, his fingers stopping briefly in the dense foam and hair. In repose, he pressed a slow kiss to his lips. 

“Yes,” Draven replied, pulling away. “It is as nice as it needs to be.”

Ezreal hummed in thought and Draven felt it in his hands. “You said you would die for Noxus.”

“That I would,” acceded Draven. 

He rinsed Ezreal’s hair with clean water until it was slick and plastered to his head. He stood briefly, returning with a washcloth to his shoulders. Ezreal objected and pulled away.

“I can do that myself,” he said. Draven passed him the cloth, but he only clutched it in a hand and made no move. Duly noted. Draven stood and left him in the bathroom. 

—

Draven went about making tea and brought it upstairs to the bedroom. He started a fire in the hearth this night, reminded of how sharp winter’s bite had been in the morning. 

“Draven,” came a call. 

He slipped in one last log, before he followed the voice to the bathroom in which Ezreal stood, a large towel wrapped over his body. He gave him a petulant look, “I do not have another change of clothes.” 

“You may wear mine,” Draven offered. He walked in and pulled a towel from its rung and began to dry the drips from his hair. 

“Yours?” Ezreal replied dubiously. Draven tossed the hair towel aside and picked him up. Ezreal grunted at the sudden loss of footing. “Your clothes would hang off me like sails,” he groused. 

Draven brought him to the bedroom and bent to lower him to the bed. “You could wear nothing at all,” Draven suggested. Ezreal’s ears pinked and Draven leaned kiss him. He pressed deep until a small sound slipped from Ezreal. 

He pulled from him and saw the same eyes of want. “Yes?” Draven asked, breathless. 

“Have care,” he said. Draven kissed him before he stood to remove his clothes. This was hardly of a new affair, but still, the sense of apprehension laid between them. And, unbeknownst to Ezreal, Draven harboured something akin to guilt. He found it senseless, but indulged in it and was revised by it. He would not admit so, yet. Not aloud, and certainly not to himself.

Draven framed Ezreal beneath him as he lapped into his mouth, swallowing gasps of his name. He was hungry for every bite, but kept his motions slow and predictable. He would not push, he promised that. When the need was keenest, he leaned back, taking in the sight and much needed breath. He ran hands down Ezreal’s sides as he kneeled over him, delight flaring when he arched to his touch. He was beautiful. And as if he had heard, Ezreal smiled up at him, uncertain and winded. 

While Draven had not necessarily worried, he was still relieved to see Ezreal was full and lifted beneath the towel. Draven shifted until his hands stroked thighs, parting the plush fabric, and he bent to brush his nose to the hair there. His lips brushed the head and Ezreal startled, a whine escaping him. 

“May I?” Draven asked. Ezreal raised his head, eyes glazed and greedy. 

“Please,” he managed. Draven heard him pant wordlessly when he drew him into his mouth. He brought a hand to the rest of his length and moved to join the cadence as Ezreal shifted and gasped. Draven felt himself harden to the occasion and to discomfort. He gave it few thoughts in the moment. 

Draven worked him until Ezreal cried out, strangled with pleasure. His back arched and his hands scrambled for purchase in the sheets, all spurred and sporadic. Draven tasted the telltale bitterness that spilled and he began to slow to a stop. 

Finally, he withdrew. Ezreal shuddered with a sigh and Draven climbed back to take his mouth. His hand reached to tend to his own needs, giving a few quick tugs to release the tension. Ezreal broke the kiss and touched his hip. “I want to,” he said, hoarse. 

Kneeling still, Draven bit his tongue when Ezreal wrapped his lips around him. His blood rushed and he fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted not to let this sight fade. He wanted to burn this into memory. He would subsist on this alone. This Ezreal bent on hands and knees, his mouth wet and slick and tight to him, his cheeks hollowed, and his brows pinched in wanton concentration. 

“Good,” Draven rasped between breaths. “So good.” Ezreal gave a moan around him and Draven longed to push deeper. He circled palms over his shoulders, urging him, praising him, and showering him with obscene adoration until he felt himself peak and come. 

They laid for some time thereafter, entangled in the sheets, sweaty and satisfied. Draven curled an arm about Ezreal and stroked his back, feeling warm and full. He had missed this. Ezreal, through heavy lids, gazed back at him. 

“Would you take me?”

Draven moved a pillow beneath his head and glanced down to the reddened lips which spoke. He was beautiful, even in the aftermath. He tilted his head to press a kiss.

“I would, when you are well,” Draven chuckled against his mouth. This new stamina, he found endearing. He felt Ezreal huff. 

“No, to Noxus.”

Draven kept his hand moving, hoping to seem unaffected. 

“Would you take me with you?” he asked, again.

Draven gave a low hum. “Would you come with me?”

Ezreal twisted from his hold and sat up. He looked stoic and thoughtful in the worst of ways before shuffling his way off the bed. Draven grabbed his arm.  

“Ezreal,” he murmured. Ezreal tugged away.

“You oaf, I’m only going to wash up,” he said, then added, “again.”

—

Draven woke, stretched, and went about for his morning exercise. He returned an hour later, sweaty and worn, for a quick bath. The sun had only began to pierce the morning fog when he walked to his bedroom, drying his hair. Ezreal was still asleep. 

Draven knew him to be bare beneath the cover and thought to wake him with sex. Draven had never been the one to refuse such an event, but he knew Ezreal to be finicky at best around it. He walked closer to the bed and hung the towel on the headboard. He watched the blankets shift breath by breath and he wondered what Ezreal was dreaming of, if he was dreaming at all. 

Draven lifted a hand and gently, most gently, rested the back of it to Ezreal’s forehead. It was hot to the touch, too hot against his skin and too hot for the cold of the room. Ezreal did not stir. He removed his hand. 

He watched the boy for some time, until he felt a small pang of shame, as if he were not to, or as if it were wrong to openly cast his gaze upon him. Somewhat defiant, he placed a light hand on the blankets above his chest, allowing it rise and fall to the rhythm, and his mind drifted from the shame. 

Ezreal looked small beneath his hand. He was built slim, without the flesh of idle academics nor of lifelong fighters. He was slim like a boy who refused to slow down for a meal, like a boy always moving. His shoulders were sharp still. Draven brought a hand to his chin, softly brushing it with a thumb. It was most odd. Draven would not have him change for the world. 

—

Draven made a breakfast platter of cheeses and sliced meats and went to put water in the kettle. Once steaming, he lifted it only to remember he had left the teapot upstairs. They had gone to bed without having so much of a cup. He returned it and spooned fresh tea leaves. 

Draven carried the loaded tray upstairs, trying to keep from thinking himself a bedside nurse or house servant. And fought harder still to keep from prodding at why. In the bedroom, Ezreal was still asleep. Draven placed the tray down on the side table and reached to wake him. He made a low noise and turned away. 

Ridiculous. The sun had risen and the day has set. Draven climbed to the bed and gathered him up, sheets and all. He maneuvered them until he sat, back to the headboard, Ezreal bundled on his lap. 

After a torturous moment, “Must you?” he grumbled. 

“You had to wake,” Draven replied. 

“According to whom?” he yawned, pressing his cheek to his shoulder. 

It was obvious. “Me,” said Draven. Ezreal only made a sound of grievance. “Look, there is food for us to break fast, and hot tea. Hardly anything to complain about.” He felt a smile on his shoulder. 

“Hm,” Ezreal hummed. “You drive a hard bargain. Let me see.” He lifted his head and sat up, sheets falling from his shoulders. He peered at the tray for a moment. “It is acceptable,” he said with a sigh, relaxing down against him. Thoughtlessly, Draven ran a hand over his bare back, lingering on the small of it. Ezreal gave him a pointed look. 

“Do you fault me?” Draven asked, a brow raised. “You are exquisite and a sight to behold.”

The tips of his ears grew pink, but Ezreal’s face did not waver. “A look with your hands, have you?” 

“I would with more.” 

“Or so they say.”

Draven toyed with the blanket between his fingers, folding and twisting it in thought, before he hiked it back over Ezreal’s shoulders. He was still unwell and any chill would be best without. In a voice free of reason, “Were you an object of desire in your youth, Ezreal?" 

Draven watched his gaze cast downwards then up to meet his. “How so?”

“Did you receive affections? Did young girls follow your footsteps and profess their adoration? You must have caught eyes in your hometown.” 

It was short and curt. “No.”

With a tilt of his head, Draven continued to study him. Ezreal stared back, his blue eyes sharp and without a trace of bleariness from sleep. He watched him watch him, like prey, like predator. The lines have blurred past defiance. 

Draven shook his head. “Come, let us eat.” 

Ezreal did not object. 

—

Ezreal borrowed a shirt that hung low like a tunic and strode room to room, wrapped in a blanket. He was beginning to become restless, but his steps were tenuous and Draven did not let him stray too far. 

Finally, “I wish I had my books,” he lamented, easing down before the fire. 

“My collection does not suit your tastes?”

“Your collection bores me.”

Draven laughed. He had said as much to Darius.  “What would you have me do?”

Ezreal grumbled before he rose, hands propped on the arm of the chair. “I suppose I should have another look,” and took slow steps towards the study. 

Draven thought to see the winter festivities in town, make a grand appearance perhaps, and made a note to ask Ezreal, once he recovers, if he ever were to. He had refused healers and Draven could plainly see how weak his movements have become. His appetite wavered from refusing food to accepting meals, but then would nibble the slightest bit before deciding to reject it anyways. Though tea he seemed to be able to stomach best, and tea he would drink the most. 

Draven looked to the chair Ezreal had just been sitting earlier and noticed the stranded blanket. Forgetful, this one. He grabbed it and walked to the study. If Ezreal were to worsen for wear, Draven would confine him to bed for the duration of this illness. He was becoming restless himself. 

He entered and was to toss the blanket over him like a heavy net, but Ezreal was incongruously still and seated. “You didn’t finish answering your post,” he said, pointing at an unopened envelope. Draven approached to drape the blanket over his shoulders and took a moment to check his temperature with the back of his hand. 

“No, I didn’t,” Draven replied. 

“I don’t recognize the seal.”

Draven pressed his lips together briefly. “It is a seal from Noxus.”

“Not one I have seen before,” he said, nonplussed. Then, almost amused, “Do you not receive posts from elsewhere?”

“I receive posts from many places, but yes, most are sent from Noxus.”

“From your adoring fans?” Ezreal asked, sounding derisive. 

“They appreciate and admire my work. I hardly fault them for sending their regards.”

Ezreal had a smile plastered to his face loaded with unjust skepticism. “Your work,” he repeated. Draven dared not to broach this subject when Ezreal was in such a mood. 

“Shall we get supper started?” he asked instead. Ezreal shook his head of blond hair. 

“I am not hungry.” 

The Noxian knew not of what to make of it. “You must eat.”

“No.” Ezreal sounded puzzled. 

“You must.”

Ezreal stood from the chair and Draven could hardly hide his chagrin at the delicacy in movement. “I will carry you up,” he announced, though he did not give a second more before doing so. 

“Brute,” Ezreal muttered. He allowed himself to be lifted upstairs to the bed where he promptly threw a fur over himself. 

Draven sat down. “You need to recover.”

“I cannot force this to go any faster,” Ezreal replied, muffled. 

“We will bring a healer to see you.”

“No.”

Stubborn boy. “You have refused this idea before.”

“And it shall stand.”

Draven rolled his eyes when he realized Ezreal could not see him from beneath the blankets. 

“Come now,” said Draven, peeling back the covers. “You are both ill and ill at ease. I know you to wish to be outside, and not bound to bed.”

Ezreal gave a small pout that made him look his age. “I would stomach a few days more,” he protested. 

“Hardly,” Draven scoffed. “You already have seen to the reach of my home. And you have started to criticize the contents.”

Ezreal hummed. “Well, you must admit you do collect boring texts.”

The Noxian laughed. “Did I refute it?” he asked lightly, settling down to join Ezreal. “Once you are well, might we see the festivities for Snowdown?” He was taken aback when Ezreal frowned at him. “Do you despise the idea so much?”

“You are being lavish.”

“I hardly see your point,” Draven replied truthfully. 

Ezreal huffed and reached to pull the sheets back over, but soon gave up when Draven held them down. 

“I’m cold,” he said, crossing his arms, looking exasperated. “Please.”

Draven gave a moment to pass before relenting, tucking the sheets to his chin. “I have never met anyone to vehemently deny Snowdown.”

“I am not denying Snowdown. I am denying you,” Ezreal grumbled. “You are excessive.”

“Excessive,” Draven repeated. 

The blond sat up, looking absurdly annoyed. Draven had no place to make sense of it. “Reckless,” declared Ezreal. 

“It is only Snowdown,” he replied, feeling daft. 

Ezreal watched him, the anger dissipating from his shoulders. He seemed hapless as he slid down to lie on his back. “We cannot go.”

Draven propped his chin up with a hand. “What are your worries? I cannot keep up with this head of yours.” He reached with his other hand and stroked hair from his face. Ezreal shut his eyes and pressed to the bedding. He was silent for a moment before he spoke again, with a bit of a croak, 

“Have you ever wondered when you would wake?”

“Wake?” asked Draven. He pressed a palm to his pulse. 

Ezreal kept his eyes shut. “When you would see the world as it sees you.” 

“I know how the world sees me,” Draven replied. “It is not such a mystery.”

Ezreal hummed and a smile formed on his lips. “I forget how old you are.”

“And I am not so old,” he refuted, propping up over Ezreal. 

“Hm, perhaps,” Ezreal said, pressing both hands to Draven’s cheeks. His skin was hot, Draven noted. It was concerning still. “Have you always taken men?”

This talk again. Draven bent to kiss him. “Why do you always stray to such matters?”

“Because it interests me.”

“It is of the past, is it not? Free yourself from it.”

Ezreal looked so indignant in his glower, Draven fought from laughing. 

“What of it now?” he asked instead. 

“What of it?” Ezreal repeated, surly. 

“Shall I pose it to you? Ask you whether you have always taken men?” Draven sat back to run his hands beneath the blankets and to pull Ezreal’s legs out to sit on his hips. He pressed down to him and Ezreal hissed at the pressure. “Or is it pointless? What do you think, Ezreal?”

“I think you very well know the answer,” he replied, strained. 

“I know this Ezreal could have never taken women,” murmured Draven, running hands down his legs, “this Ezreal with his pretty mouth and his slender thighs.” 

“Stop it!” 

Draven sat back again as Ezreal bounded up and away from him. Kneeling by the headboard, a hand clenched in the sheets, it was a fair while before he found his voice. “Why must you humiliate me this way?” 

It was an ugly thing. A thought too loathsome to bear, yet Ezreal thought that of him. Draven felt a righteous conviction to strike him, as to lay the utter contempt for his slight. It was perhaps too appealing of a notion. 

Draven climbed off and stepped from the bed. His own bed of which he had just been ejected from. Ezreal truly had a grasp over him. And with another nail to the point, “I will be making dinner.” He need not follow with, “And you will eat”. It hung in the air, plain as day. 

It was of no surprise when Ezreal stared only at him, silent, still, and composed. He said nothing when Draven left. 

—

Nightfall arrived quick and brought its frigid rains with it. Draven roused a fire and it kept his bedroom unbeknownst to the cold. Ezreal had eaten bites of the meal, which Draven would commend him for, if they were speaking. The youth was petulant and withheld his words. Draven had little patience to draw it from him. He would wait without bated breath. 

They laid in bed together, but no longer wound together. Ezreal faced the wall. Draven watched the orange glow flicker on the ceiling. He longed for a drink. 

Draven was never one to share beds with the unwilling, and those of whom were hard to find. However, bedding others came with a set of rituals and compromise and often times, Draven was content to have a bed to himself. He need not the outside company. He was hardly a stranger to self-indulgence. 

—

It must have been some few hours after midnight. 

Draven was downstairs, seated, a glass of spirit in hand. He found a peace to the quietness that was unheard in the bedroom above. He wondered not. 

A cupful was nursed, and never had been refilled, though it had been taller than customary in polite company. He had too few qualms about it in the moment. 

The fireplace sat cold in front of him and the room was dimly lit by the fixed lanterns and stray candles. It was comfortable and he relaxed with relish in the dark. It was, he felt, a sense of relief. He threw his head back against the armchair, sighing. He had inexplicably mundane thoughts; of groceries, for firewood, and on upcoming matches as a champion. Draven had meant to evade it, but such thoughts drifted to his brother and where he must be now. 

He wondered whether Darius was sitting in the halls of their home or in the centre of Noxus, conferring with the state, or whether he was making his rounds from post to post in the outer lands Noxus occupied. 

Draven frowned to himself, blotting the thoughts from his mind. It would only serve to upset him. The letter was a dark mark in his home and he wanted to burn it, but had not enough the discourtesy to do so. He refused to open it, to read it. Yet guilt mounted when he thought to destroy it. 

Bothersome, it was, for the written word to be a fount of disdain. It is but simply ink on a page.

He sipped an ample sip and savoured the bite and the heat of it. The rotund bottle had come from an admirer, and as the drink was nothing short of fine, it was often served more than the others. The strength predisposed it. 

Without a glance, he downed the rest. It blazed and it burned, but not so unpleasant to regret. He stood to bring his empty glass to the kitchen and climbed the stairs back up. The bedroom was unquestionably warmer than from where he came. The flames were still strong in its hearth and Draven bent to offer another split log. 

He lifted a blanket and pulled himself into the bed, settling down for a night’s rest. He moved a pillow, and turned to look to his side, finding the bed emptier than when he had left it. He leaned to check the sheets and found them unsuitably vacant. Ezreal was not found to be with him. 

Draven slowly laid back down. Ezreal must be in the bathroom, he surmised. Seconds passed before he thought press a hand to where Ezreal had been. The bed had no warmth to it. He had been gone for awhile, enough for his heat to clear. 

Started, Draven got up, making quick strides to the master bathroom. Then to the guest bedroom. And the next. Draven clambered downstairs, feeling foolish. Perhaps Ezreal had been hungry and looked for a midnight snack. He peered into the kitchen, the pantry, to the dining room, then to the foyer and main hall. 

He paused. 

Reluctantly, he checked the study. 

Draven nearly swore aloud. “Must you?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “It is deep into the night. Come to bed.” 

“It did not seem so important when you had your reprieve,” Ezreal announced, without so much as breaking a line in his reading. Draven felt his mind begin to drop deeper into exhaustion and hard drink, his vision slow and sluggish. He fought from yawning too loudly. 

“Which boring book are you pouring over now in this hour?” Draven asked, after a terse moment. 

“A reading is a reading,” Ezreal declared. 

Draven scoffed and pushed to stand from the frame. “It is late. Mark your page.”

The blond peeked at him. 

“Ezreal, I would not ask twice,” Draven said. 

The youth did not blink as the book snapped shut in his hand and was sent hurling towards Draven. On any other day, he would have caught it midair with ease, but he had more to drink than he had meant. The tips of his fingers barely brushed the cover and it clattered to the floor unceremoniously. He was not so attached to this text, but the thought of his property being strewn about piqued him. 

It was much too late. The hour has slackened his reflexes and his mind drifted and wavered. He held out a hand. Ezreal eyed it, wary. He was stiff and frozen to the chair, using the back of it to separate them. His knuckles shone white, but did not tremble. 

“Ezreal, now.” 

Ezreal slowly rose from the chair, one foot before the other, and he placed his hand on Draven’s. Even in the cold, his skin emanated still with the heat of fever. The morning, Draven reasoned, he would deal with it in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 15, 2019.
> 
> Thank you so much for those of you who read this still. It can be long and dawdling and I admire your wills to continue. I also really appreciate those of you who have given me such kudos! It has kept and still keeps my heart warm. 
> 
> This piece of text has daunted me since the very first iteration of it in 2014 and I have always longed to complete it to my vision, to my intentions. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you. Zjol.


	6. Six

Morning had arrived steeped in slumber. Draven mustered as much to pull from sleep, running a hand over his face. His body whined for more rest. The pitter patter of rain simmered down from the ceiling. It was, it seemed, a pointed start to a day. 

He brought himself to sit and noticed the fire had not gone out overnight. Beside him, Ezreal stirred and brought his head up. He looked to speak, but was interrupted by a long cough that racked his frame. He laid back down after the spell, croaking, “I don’t feel much better.” Draven ran a hand through the blond hair, finding it messy and slick with sweat. Even his scalp held searing heat. With a tilt of his head, he asked, 

“How do you feel, then?”

Ezreal pondered for words, but looked asleep as he did so. So softly, too softly, “It hurts to speak and I feel much too cold.” He looked miserable as Draven adjusted the sheets about him solemnly. 

“The fire still burns,” he replied. “It will keep you warm.”

“I should know. I saw to it,” pouted Ezreal, sounding sick and sullen. “Hasn’t worked yet so far.”

Draven felt his forehead. “No, I suppose not.” He swung his legs from the bed and stood to stretch. 

“Where are you going?”

“To fetch you a cold cloth, your skin is burning,” he answered. He paused a moment, reflecting on the day ahead. “Then I am off for my training, but I would return soon.” He made steps all the way to the door before Ezreal spoke up again.

His voice was scratched and sounded like to hurt. “Must you?”

It came about before thought. “Yes,” said Draven. “But I will be back.”

—

Draven had found it uneventful and unproductive. He was far too distracted to have made progress and he stopped abruptly, seething with himself. It was no good. 

He leaned to a tree, catching mouthfuls of the winter air. The cold was deep set, but not yet as to draw snow from the skies. It had only rained overnight and the earth was now slick with ice and frost. It crunched underfoot as Draven made way towards the town, forgoing the rest of his routine. It simply would not do, he had no mind for it. 

—

It was nearly noon by the time Draven returned home. 

He was surprised, but not unpleasantly so, to find Ezreal still in bed. He was at rest, though no more resting as he were asleep. A pillow was propped beneath his chin as he pored over a thick book, and Draven could hardly fathom the interest Ezreal must have in something so inarticulately dull.

The sound of entry alerted Ezreal and he turned his head, his eyes bright, towards the door. There was a sudden, though nearly imperceptible, change in his expression. Draven came to sit down on the bed, pulling the book from his slack grasp. With a thumb courteously pressed to the page, he flipped to see the cover. It was, he gleaned, a tome on the welders of Noxian steel. He handed it back, open to the saved texts. 

Ezreal did not take it. He slowly rose, drawing close a blanket, as he looked past Draven with an unsure gaze. 

“Who is—”

“An apothecary,” Draven replied, following his sightline. “He has come to see you.”

Ezreal pressed his lips into a thin line, his blue eyes peering to pierce. Draven gave a loathsome sigh and closed the book, sliding it upon a table. It was, it appeared, how he had thought it were to go. How unfortunate. 

“Behave,” he instructed, making room for the company. 

—

Ezreal was no more arduously quiet than Draven had best expected. The apothecary had left behind a sharply scented salve, a small bag of dried cuttings, and lingering wisps of worry. Draven could taste the man’s distrust, and while sour, it bothered him not. 

“He did not like you,” said Ezreal. 

“And I liked him not,” Draven replied.

The blond pulled the borrowed shirt over his head, threading his arms through the long sleeves. It was a cream linen stitched with decorative gold thread along the hems. It fit him unwell. He rolled up the sleeves as he eyed Draven warily. “Yet you brought him to me.”

“Forgive my concern,” Draven said dryly. “But you have been in a fever for too many of days.”

With the pursing of his lips, Ezreal looked away. His voice was drier still, worse than the morning. “It is nothing,” he grumbled. Draven picked up the jar of salve, the stinging scent reaching his nostrils, even while corked. 

“Is it so.” He sat, weighing the container in hand. “This is for nothing, then?” He set it back down on the table, harder than he had meant. Ezreal flinched at the sound. 

“I told you I did not need it.”

“You were so adamant against a healer from the League. I thought perhaps an apothecary would suffice,” replied Draven. 

“I did not want anyone,” he said with a sniff. 

Draven leaned to the table, his arms coming to cross in front of his chest. This had him ponderous. He bent his head, until his chin rested upon his shirt collar, and he thought to ask more directly. “Why is it that?”

He offered a long moment. He had expected the response, or lack of such, but it agitated him no less. Ezreal fell into his new found habit of silence, throwing a sheet over himself in a solitude Draven found senseless. 

—

He soon found himself in the kitchen preparing meat with salt and spices. It was to marinade for supper. For lunch, he cooked onions, potatoes, and chopped sausages. He pulled out a carrying tray, but thought better of it. 

—

“Ezreal.”

No such answer. Draven kept from expelling a sigh. 

“Ezreal, it is time for midday meal. Come eat.”

He leaned down and tugged at a sheet. Ezreal gave a groan. He was still alive then, that much was certain. Draven slid down to sit and pulled away the blankets with some force. Ezreal hardly put up a fight and he was left to curl inward. “Monster,” he croaked. 

“It is time to get up,” Draven replied. With a hand, he carded through the blond locks, savouring how Ezreal softened at the touch so willingly. Draven rested his palm to his forehead, fingers curled on his scalp. Ezreal brought his own hands to his forearm and pulled until he could press a kiss to his palm. 

“Feeling better?” Draven asked, moving to cup his cheek. Ezreal’s hands still held to his arm. 

His voice was coarse. “Maybe if I were to make a venture outside.” 

Briefly, Draven looked to the windows. “It is much too cold.”

“It is a bore inside.” 

“And you have much to recover.”

Ezreal let go of his arm. “I have been here too long.”

“You could never overstay your welcome,” Draven replied. 

“I don’t want to make anyone worry,” he said, hesitant. 

“Your friends,” Draven surmised. 

“My friends,” he repeated, solemn. 

Draven thumbed his cheek. “Is the truth out of the question?”

Ezreal looked horrified. He sat up, waves of hair falling to his face. The ill-fitting shirt slipped down a shoulder, and his hands clutched at the sheets. 

“I cannot.”

Draven leaned to kiss him. His lips were tense against his. “Why do you deny yourself?” he asked. Ezreal looked up at him,

“It’s not for my own sake.”

Draven reached to part hair from his face, then he touched and stroked his cheeks, his jaw, and his chin. Ezreal’s mouth was parted slightly and Draven delve into it with his, kissing him roughly until he panted for air. 

“You worry too much of what your friends think,” Draven said, voice low. Ezreal’s hands came to his jaw, then they slid down to rest on his shoulders. 

“I don’t fear them,” Ezreal replied, breathless. It was his turn to press a kiss so gentle, it was nearly chaste. “Nor do I worry of them.”

“Then what?” Draven hummed. “You worry of me?”

Ezreal, below him, said nothing of the immediate. And a sigh was heaved then, long and slow. Draven sat down to the bed and pulled Ezreal up, sliding him onto his lap. The boy clung to him. 

“Best be forward,” Draven said, quietly. 

Blue eyes wandered over his face. “Would I ever be welcome?” he asked. 

“Are you not now?” Draven replied. “In my home, in my bed, and in my arms? What is welcome if this is not?”

Ezreal’s cheeks shone bright and red. “I suppose,” he said. “Though we are well behind doors and I know not whether—”

“Once you are well, I would take you in the centre of the city, dressed only in light of day. Would you know then?”

Ezreal chewed on his own lip. “You have no shame.”

“I thought you had known that from the start.” Draven kissed his forehead. “Though Snowdown sounds much less like to cause a stir. Might we try that?”

Ezreal scoffed softly. “What would your brother think?”

“I care not of what he thinks,” replied Draven. Darius, afterall, was no longer in town. 

“Your brethren?”

“My brethren care little of each other and their lives, would you not agree?” Draven asked. 

“I would not know,” Ezreal answered truthfully. “I have hardly the encounters to make an assumption.”

“Then allow me to assure you, Ezreal.”

He smiled, uncertain, and Draven was compelled to take him.

—

The next coming days were languid and of the unhurried mind. Ezreal was overcoming the worst of his ailment; the drips, the coughs, and the heat have eased and ebbed away, leaving behind a much more spirited young man. He ate more at each meal and had fewer grievances about bathing. Draven, too, had fewer grievances. 

By the end of the week, Ezreal had gone home and Draven’s house was quiet again. He had offered to accompany him on the journey, but Ezreal only bowed his head and rambled on about the distance, and the weather, and this, and that. Draven let him be and kissed him goodbye. If Ezreal did not want his company, Draven would not push it. 

In his absence, Draven found much of the time to be unfilled and he pondered what he had done prior. He had never felt this kind of tedium towards plainly existing. His daily training had been tended to and what little household chores were completed. Draven knew not of what to fill his time with. He grew simply bored. 

Books were unlike to entertain him and if any matches were active in the League, he hardly were to bother, especially such matches held without his involvement. But Draven would not sit through this. Would not, could not, will not. He changed and fastened a heavy woollen cloak about his neck, for the outside air was frigid and sharp. Such a winter evening was keen and if the Gods will it, he was not to waste it. 

—

Draven was a man of social affairs and it was of no doubt he allowed himself a drink, or two, at one of the more riotous pubs in the hold. The bards made for jubilant air and mirth came as easily as worries faded. 

Draven stepped to sit at a trestle table, tankard heavy, but not full. It landed on the tabletop with a slosh. “You look ill at ease. Do you often make missteps?” asked Draven. “This parlour hardly seems of your choosing.”

If Talon had heard, he made no show of it. He did not even turn his way. “Your brother’s absence is regrettable.”

It was a peculiar way of phrasing it, Draven thought. It was not a word he would use. “To whom?” asked Draven.

Talon took a slow sip from his own cup. Draven caught the sour notes of wine and he wrinkled his nose. To the other end of the hall, the bards have ended their song to drunken cheers and were to begin another, their hands already plucking the first notes of the next. Draven thought he recognized it, until they began to sing. 

“The League has lost a formidable Noxian. It is only time the other follows,” Talon replied. He lifted his glass. “Though not as regrettably as the first,” he muttered into his tankard.

Draven thumbed bits of foam from his moustache after a long drink and chuckled. “You will continue to be sorely disappointed, Talon, for I will not be joining his pilgrimage.”

“The Hand is without his faithful executioner?” asked Talon. His voice was sharp and it cut through the noise of merriment as his words were laced to sting. Draven took it in stride, shouldering off the slight.

“This executioner is best served in the Fields of Justice, do you not agree?”

Talon thought for a moment and his silence was as pointed as his words. “I hear this executioner is best served by Piltovians.”

Draven paused before the lip of his tankard, taken aback, but Talon did not face him still. “I had never taken you for one to tell tales,” replied Draven. 

“You’ve become more brazen. He may be in Noxus, but word travels quick.”

The tankard of ale was nearly finished when it was set back down to the table. “Your concern is appreciated,” Draven said dryly. “Though Darius is more than cognizant and has already made his distaste known.”

Talon finally turned to stare from beneath his hood. A pair of eyes glowed with scrutiny for a long while, until Draven grew restless.

“Spit it out, Talon. I don’t mean to sit here all night with an empty cup.”

“He knows.”

“Have I not made that clear?” grumbled Draven.

Talon shook his head and turned away. He faced the direction of the bards and spoke no further. 

Unsettled, but undeterred to have a fine night, Draven bade his farewell and stood to refill his tankard. Revelry was all around as he strolled through the jostling and jovial drinkers. He envied them and all their levity. The room was warm and full of merrymaking and he was hardly the centre of it. A shame.

Draven caught the eyes of a pink haired woman facing his way. He would take the attention and help himself, but she seemed vaguely familiar and her gaze was nothing short of piercing. He promptly turned around and walked away. Draven was not one to stand down from confrontation, but the conversation, if one could frame it as so, with Talon left his nerves frayed and he wanted not another awkward exchange. He had not the energy to deal with anymore of it.

He sat down by the bar with too much relief and flagged down a barmaid for a fill. 

Draven was almost in good spirits when he felt a presence press to his elbow and he tilted his head to the side. He swallowed a groan and, instead, plastered on his stadium smile,

“Katarina.”

“Draven,” said she, slinking onto the seat beside him. 

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” He knew she was of keen wit, but it was always good practice to, at least, at the very least, pretend to be civil. She folded her arms across the table and met him with silence. It was such courtesy you would come to expect from her. Her green eyes looked him over, from the top of his head, to the hem of his cloak, and seeped from it was a kind of displeasure. Draven was accustomed to the eyes of jury and it bothered him not. In fact, coming from Katarina, he reveled in her distaste. She had always been his least favourite Du Couteau. 

Draven turned to receive his drink with a derisive snort, to her and to himself. He lifted the cup and immediately downed its contents, knowing he would need whatever it would give him to last this. Katarina continued to look unimpressed. “Your company leaves much to be desired,” declared Draven.

She minded him not. “The Hand is without his executioner.”

“I see you’ve spoken with Talon,” he said with a tilt of the head her way. “Or, more likely, you’ve been eavesdropping. It’s a dastardly habit, Katarina.” He had half-expected her to be deterred, but knew better than to hope. She leaned close to him, her red hairs brushing his cheek as she spoke into his ear, 

“He has returned, but you remain here still.” 

Draven gazed around the tavern. The bards were live and the chatter relentless and he wondered if Katarina could hear the same. He peered at her and scoffed, leaning away. “What of it?” he asked.

“It’s only curious.” She lifted a hand to study her nails. “Does Darius return in your stead? To answer for your proclivities?”

“Irrelevant.” Draven waved a hand. “Now away with you.” 

A corner of her lips indented and she looked almost amused. She turned around in her barstool and leaned back, elbows braced against the table. She watched the crowd with a severe silence. Draven did not follow and ordered another drink. He made a point to not order one for her. 

He lifted the refilled tankard and drank, reviewing his options. It was only the beginning of midnight, yet tiredness has made its presence known. The blame was to fall on the Du Couteau’s, he reasoned. 

“It’s true then,” she said finally. The veil had fallen and her words rang forthright and true. 

“Not in the way you have it,” said Draven. 

“A Piltovian is a bold choice.”

“Bolder still would be a Demacian.”

She gave a bark of laughter, as honeyed as her words. “I suppose I should not have put it past you. Your reputation, after all, precedes your title in full.” 

“If only you were as amenable before, Katarina,” he teased. She grinned at him. She had never looked so genuine and dangerous,

“You would have found yourself a changed man.”

“Hm.” He eyed her. “Must I suppose it is beyond us now?” Draven asked, a smidge curious.

In turn, she regarded him coolly. “It had never been to have passed. I am not so pitiful as the boy you have ensnared.” 

Draven drew himself back. “Do you truly pity him?”

“I do not think of him, just as you do not.”

“Such claims, Katarina,” he tsked. 

She looked at him with ardent disbelief. “Oh, Draven, you could not possibly believe this is any different.”

“Perhaps I have found myself a changed man.” he said. “I have hardly the reasons to lie,” he added. 

“And fewer to be forthcoming?”

He gave her a withering look, of which she brushed off, seemingly more smug for it. 

“Was I supposed to announce it from the rooftops?”

“You announce everything else,” she said, scoffing. Her long nails tapped timelessly on the countertop before finally, “My concerns do not involve him.”

Draven did not prod, choosing instead to drink from his cup. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Embellishment, perhaps. But I have never thought you as an outright liar.”

“It’s his business. Not mine.”

“You two are one and the same. Tell me.”

“He was very emphatic about my unworthy of privy. He must have thought the same of you, Katarina.”

She gave him a scathing look which lasted longer than he would have come to expect from her. She leaned close once more. “Speaking of privy,” she breathed to his ear, “someone keeps a keen eye on you tonight.” Her red lips curled in guile as she stepped from her stool. “I bid you farewell, dear Draven. For now.”

He rolled his eyes as soon as her back turned and slipped through the crowd. She was as like to keep sight of him. He finished his ale and tucked payment beneath the tankard before he left the tavern, spirits beyond repair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 7, 2019
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and thank you for the comments. Gives me the fuzzies that there is someone out there who is as invested as I am. I’ve been ruminating on this matter for years and years and years and it’s nice to finally be able to share it.
> 
> This is a chapter of note for me. As always, thank you for reading. Zjol.


	7. Seven

Ezreal was dragging his feet. It was as obvious as day. 

The winter had relented its clouds on this morning, instead, bright sunlight glittered off the snow all around and underfoot. It did little to the cold however, apparent with every mist of the few words between them. Intermittently was Draven to peer down at him. Ezreal had on a knitted cap and a scarf to match, both of a deep ocean blue which served very well to bring attention to his eyes and hair. The winter garments were fresh off of needlepoints, and obviously made with care. Ezreal is loved, Draven thought. 

“Keeping warm?” he asked. 

A hand moved before thought towards the woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. “Warm enough,” Ezreal replied, his hand dropping hastily. 

“I don’t want you falling ill again,” said Draven. 

The boy scoffed. “I won’t.” 

They fell back into a silence broken by footfalls into snow. The hold was visible from their vantage, its stone walls brushed high with frost. Steam and smoke swirled into one another as they rose into the air, and even at this distance, Draven could smell the winter spices. It did not smell like the home he knew.

Ezreal became visibly overwrought as they approached the entryway where four guards stood steadfast; they carried shields adorned with the League’s crest, with blades hanging from their belts. They hardly seemed to be looking their way from beneath close helms. 

Draven pressed a hand to Ezreal’s back, in part to guide him forwards, and in another to catch him, if he were to fall. It seemed not so much to happen as, almost immediately, Ezreal shook off his touch. “You are so overbearing,” he heard him mutter. 

They passed under the archway onto cobbled roads that sprawled and forked. Large pennant banners in festive colours were strung roof to roof of the brick and stone buildings. Storefronts had been decorated in lush garlands and their doors with winter wreaths. It seemed, most certainly, Snowdown had arrived. 

Draven and Ezreal followed the centre path that wound towards an open plaza of which a great evergreen tree stood, wrapped in streamers and beads. Giant colourful glass baubles hung off of the thick bushels of pine, and spun sunlight into rainbow flecks on snow. 

It was a gathering of modest proportions. The morning was yet new and only the early risers mingled about the plaza. Ezreal strode steps away to a stall and gazed upon the wares with thinly veiled anxiety, his lower lip pinched between teeth. Draven watched him make small talk with the seller, smiling and nodding so politely with an obvious nervous air. 

It was a strange showing and Draven tore his eyes from it, moving to a neighbouring stall to peruse blown glass ornaments. The colours shone bright in the winter sun and he felt a temptation to pick up one of the objects. He did not, choosing to walk on to the next stall as a pair of stable boys darted past, baskets held high over their shoulders. 

He watched them weave through shoppers, their arms holding their parcels upright, to keep from bouncing and spilling the contents. They were shouting at each other, laughing, and one of them, the taller one, slowed his pace to turn around. He looked at Draven and smiled, uncertain. His face was flushed from the run and his cheeks dimpled. Then he looked forward once again and picked up speed to catch up to the other boy. Draven paid it no mind. Common folk recognized him all the time. 

“Do you know him?” asked Ezreal. He had reappeared by his side, holding a paper packet wound in twine. 

“No. What do you have there?” Draven asked him. “Is it for me?”

“It is hardly of your business,” replied Ezreal. “And even if it were for you, I wouldn’t be telling you, now would I?”

Draven gave him a sidelong glance. “I suppose not,” he said wryly. Ezreal glowered at him, tucking away the parcel, to which Draven laughed, then leaned to wrap an arm around him, pressing a small kiss on his forehead. It was very apparent that it must have been the wrong thing to do. The blond pulled from him. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed. His cheeks were rosier than the cold would allow. “What would I do if someone were to ask?” For this, Draven thought to tease him, 

“You could run. You have your gauntlet with you today, do you not?” replied Draven. “Or you could accept the truth, and its consequences.”

“I would not have myself draped on your arm in public.”

“Do you usually have yourself draped on my arm in private?” he asked. 

Ezreal became fully pink in the face and he turned and stalked away, the paper packet wrinkled in his hand. However, Draven was much taller, and thus, able to take longer strides, and he quickly caught up to the boy. “You perplex me,” Draven quipped to him.

“You are excessive,” said Ezreal. “I knew this was a bad endeavour from the start.”

“I am excessive,” repeated Draven. They walked for some time, until they rounded a corner to a small garden of barren branches and frost. Small red berries dotted along a dark brush, gleaming under a sheen of ice. The air was of a quiet one, even as it laid sequestered close to the city centre in an undisturbed solitude. Draven could smell it. It was a garden for the dead. 

Ezreal stood beside him, staring haplessly at the small stone monuments. They filled their silence with the study, as the sun beamed down and glittered off the frozen dew drops. Their procession was slow and measured, their path woven through rows upon rows of graves, each adorned with a single fresh violet flower atop of a snow-covered mound. Many died after a lives long lived, Draven noted. It was not a luxury he had grown up with.

“I’ve told them,” grumbled Ezreal, as they stepped out from an iron wrought gate. The air was cold and still. “They bring me doubts, and new fears.”

Draven planted his feet to the ground, turning to him. “Tell me these doubts and these fears.”

He had waited for some time before the blond looked up at him, eyes red and cheeks flushed. “I do not wish to,” Ezreal replied, as soft as the breeze. He adjusted his scarf before turning down a stone path. Draven followed accordingly. “These weeks have been a fever dream,” Ezreal said instead. 

“I have not misled you,” said Draven, reaching a hand to his shoulder. They stopped in the middle of the path. “I have been forthright and forthcoming, Ezreal.”

The boy glanced at his direction, seemingly to grapple with that truth. “What is it that you expect from me, Draven? We are too different, you and I.”

“What have they filled your head with, Ezreal?” asked Draven, lifting his fingers to his cheek. “These suspicions have not been present before. You speak so solemnly as if we were to part. What do you fear?”

Ezreal stared at his chest, where a Noxian clasp held close his cloak. His lips were bitten to a berry red, chapped and dry in the winter air. “I fear I have made a mistake,” he admitted, “that I may not have the strength beyond you.” He blinked away. And the voice he spoke in next was but a murmur, “I fear to be made foolish.”

“You fear foolish things, but it does not make you foolish.” Draven pulled him close and drew their lips together. He kissed him, tasted him, and pressed deep until Ezreal’s hands came to a frantic grasp on his shoulders. Draven peered at him before darting forwards to land another kiss. “I do not mock my lovers for their love,” he vowed. Ezreal finally met his eyes. He looked abashed, as he spoke next, 

“I think you misunderstand me, Draven.” But nevertheless, he smiled and kissed him back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 25, 2019. 
> 
> Thought to publish the next (albeit short) chapter before 2019 comes to a close. Thank you all so very much for reading! I wish you a happy holiday season and a happy new year. Cheers to the 20s! Zjol.


	8. Eight

“Walk with me.”

He was curt and he spoke sharply. The sun’s rays have not yet begun their journey to this morning, should this time of night be so errantly considered morning. It was cold and the winds stung Draven through his nightclothes. Talon seemed unaffected in his wool cloak and hood.

“Walk with you?” asked Draven, incredulous through his half-slumber. “On this hour? In this weather? You have lost your mind.” He thought to shut the door to shelter from the chill, but paused in thought as he did, after all, dislike Talon the least of the Du Couteau’s. He looked at him. “If you are so inclined to my company, then make way inside,” relented Draven, a finger and thumb coming to pinch the bridge of his nose. “The fire still stirs and I have no heart for its warmth leave through this door any longer.” 

Talon was steadfast. “Get dressed,” said he. Draven regarded him truly. What was left of sleep was pulled from him and he saw Talon in a clarity. 

There was, beside the winter, a coldness to the Noxian, something biting and smooth like the edge of a blade. An air about him; perhaps the way of which he stood, or the way in which he spoke, that held the tension of a drawn bow. “Do you mean to order me?” Draven asked carefully. Talon did not reply. He asked him again, “On whose terms do you come?” Another shrill cry of wind whipped past them, pulling and tugging Talon’s heavy cloak in its wake. He did not sway. “Whose terms, Talon?” Draven repeated, voice to approach a snarl. 

What warmth was left had gone. Eventually, “My own,” he answered with weary. “Get dressed, Draven. Walk with me.”

The night was hard and strong in its insistence of the cold. The sun was beginning to pierce through the moon’s veil and it brought light to paths for footing along the gnarled tree roots and rocks. Draven and Talon have been walking for some time now. The resin-scented woods were growing denser as they marched deeper to...to what, or where, Draven did not know. He had asked time and time again, but met only silence. Talon remained tight-lipped. 

Gruffly, “Whatever you mean to show me better be worth this dreadful hike,” muttered Draven. Alas, Talon did not bite and said nothing. 

They pressed onwards and upwards and soon the earth gave way to moss and lichens and stone. A translucent layer of frost crackled and crunched underfoot, though the sounds were swallowed by dense underbrush and leaves and needles. Even the fierce wind had become but a whisper of evergreen. By then, Talon slowed his steps and stopped. He seemed to gather himself as he turned to Draven, tiredly shifting his cloak to sit down onto a boulder. 

It was a long while before Talon broke the still air. “I am to arrive at your home,” he said, reaching to undo his hood. His once long hair, had been recently shorn, and it made him look closer to his age, though to how old or how young, Draven was unsure. “I am to deliver unto you a message, and I do so in the means I deem necessary. The short task I am asked of is complete and we part ways. Unsaid, it is that I am done my part when you are with yours.”

Draven kicked at the frozen moss clumps beneath his soles. He had, in his heart, known that there was a day to come that he could no longer ignore what lingered. He was, admittedly, surprised at how soon it came down upon him and of whom it came to bear. “Do you blame me?” asked Draven. 

Talon looked at him, eyes searching. His mouth twitched in thought, but otherwise he was as still as the dead. “It matters not to you whether I do,” he replied. He was as cold, it seemed. “You only ask to have me in your shoes. And I only ask for you to be in mine.”

“It borders on treachery, does it not?” 

Talon studied him, studied his words, and then seemed to find himself uncaring of what he had meant. “I cannot say,” said Talon at last. “And the less I do, the better. I seek from you only a resolution.” It was perhaps as close to pleading Draven suspected Talon was to come to. A breeze threaded through the trees, brushing past between them, their winter cloaks stirring about their ankles. Talon had done him a great service. Draven was not to forget, nor make light of, nor squander the opportunity. 

He felt his time was coming. He gave a sigh, releasing the breath he had been holding. The tension between his shoulders fell and, with some shame, the blades he carried grew lighter. He had them in the case Talon drew his, and the suspicion towards another of Noxus began to weigh down on him, even as certain as he was Talon had carried the same. Draven made steps toward him and sat down just as wearily beside him on the boulder. 

The break of day was near unseen down in the forest floor. Spatters of sunlight came through between pine needles and caught the fog in fine droplets. Talon did not turn to look at him, though he was without his customary hood and thus, he could not hide. “I am curious on why you were tasked,” admitted Draven. 

Talon made no expression. “Curious?” he grunted. “You should be grateful.” 

“You will see the end to your burden,” promised Draven. The air seemed to have relented its frigidity and gave way to a mild cold. “And now, I hope, we both will see the end of these woods.” He watched as Talon’s eyes darted onto him and away, quick as a songbird, completely imperceptible if not for his bare face under morning light. His shoulders were stiffly facing forwards, away, adjacently so, from Draven. “You mean to ask me something else, though it is not nearly as urgent of a matter. For your consideration, I would hear it,” offered Draven. “I am indebted to you, whether either of us would care for it.” 

“I hold no debts,” Talon grounded out, “and I would not have yours.” He seemed to gather well enough that it was time to pull his hood back over his head, casting a deep shadow across his features, hidden once more from the world. He then rose steadily, his cloak brushing along the frost in fellowship. Talon began to trek back from where they came. Draven followed. 

—

His back was growing angry with him by the time he reached home. Draven tugged off his heavy wools and climbed to the tub, washing away the remnants of the hike. He had not meant to, but he sat in the lukewarm suds for a long while. The warmth calmed the grievance of his back pain and the private stillness allowed for a moment of recollection and thought. As the bath water cooled to a tepid temperature, he realized with a start that this kind of trepidation, this kind of hesitancy, it was unlike him. It was likely what Talon had meant to make mention of and Draven was glad he had not taken the opportunity to. 

As he dressed, he maneuvered around the pain. Some certain contortions and bends were not possible without a sharp bite to the inner muscles of his back, so he was left to pull on loose knits and linens with fastenings for this day. It was no easy feat. Once the task of clothing came to an end, Draven went to his study and sat down, as if he had the agency he did not feel. 

The envelope was no different in weight, material, or writing from any other post he received from his home state. He took a small blade to the neat edge and slid from one corner to the other. The paper split easily and a cream parchment letter was folded thrice into it. 

He peered down into the envelope. Then he flipped it over and placed it by the corner of his desk and he stared at the wax seal. The design was unique, though more significant than that, it was a design known to Draven. Familiar, one could say. He eventually tore his eyes from it and pulled open a side drawer and began to parse through for paper, ink, and a nib pen. He found the items easily enough.

He set them down on the table. 

And looked at them. 

And looked at them still. 

He bit his lip as he went about uncorking the small vial of ink, slowly and steadily. He was being ridiculous. Almost angrily, he snatched the folded parchment from the envelope, the material crinkling loudly beneath his terse fingers as he read the neat writing. He took a breath as he read it once more, until its meaning set into his mind. When it finally did, he placed the letter down, right above his own parchment. 

Draven picked up his pen and dipped the needle of a nib into the ink once, twice. He tapped off the excess and held it to the paper. 

Draven wrote quickly. He did not give a moment for hesitation. When the dark ink had finally dried, he read it over and over until he could bear it no more; folding it sharply and sheathing it into a clean envelope. He poured a small circle of a deep green wax and pressed a seal of his own to imprint. He turned it over to the front and wrote down the name and address and tucked the missive into a leather satchel. He dressed warmly for the weather and from there on began his trek into town for the services of a courier. 

—

The winds billowed with an edge by midday. The air spun sharply and chapped his cheeks and nose and the knuckles of his hands. It was as loud as it was fierce. The low whistle swirled the distance from his home to the city proper, the gale force whipping against the wood signs and posts along the path. 

Dense formations of clouds darkened the sky as they moved to the belligerent will of the winds. Draven hoped it were not to snow nor storm. It would make the trip far more cumbersome than he would have preferred. The divines must have heard his pleas and thought it momentous to give what he did not ask for, as small flecks of snow began to whir downwards in frenzied circles. It came down quickly and, very soon, the flurry of white pushed at him, latching onto his clothes and hair. 

He figured himself to look like some snow-built beast by the time he reached the city gates. He ducked into the nearest door for some reprieve from the elements, and such reprieve he found. With luck, he was standing in an inn. A long trench of a fire pit filled the centre of the hall, its smoke and smoulder rising to a hole in the roof. The air was warm and filled with the smell of cooked meats and bread, followed by the sour of ale. 

An uncomfortable stinging flared on his extremities as feeling came back to them. He put his frozen fingers to use and removed his outer cloak after fiddling some bit with the fastenings, and hung it up by the hooks at the door. Three cloaks were there before his; two in the colour of wet earth, and one of a night blue. There was one more cloak in the room, but it was not unclasped and hanging, instead it was still on its owner, hood and all. Draven paid no further mind. He walked deeper into the inn, flexing his fingers, hoping to coax the pins and needles feeling from them before he dared to have a cup of drink. 

There was an older man tending to a roasting spit by one end of the fire. He nodded to Draven and beckoned over a woman in an apron, who had been sweeping by the bar. She came to Draven, making chaste remarks about the weather and the Snowdown festivities. He smiled and chatted her up, but she was only interested in what he wanted to order. 

He sat down onto a bench with relief, his pain returning to the plains of his back, unrelenting in its course. His ale came to him quickly and it smelled sweetly of apples and spices. Harvest brews were a foreign kind to him, something he had only ever had while he lived in the League. 

Draven stayed in the inn, drawing in the warmth of the fire and listening intently to the winds outside the door. He had still with him the letter to deliver. It was not as momentous nor heavy as he had first felt about it, but after putting it pen to paper, it had a surefire finality. 

The heavy, wooden door opened and in came the cold, the snow, and the wind, which howled madly behind two huddled figures. Their cloaks were frosted and frozen and quickly shed to hang on the hooks. Draven had seen him first, but Ezreal had stared at the cloak with a Noxian clasp and a mantle of black fur, and he looked around the inn expectantly, with bright eyes and unease. 

A smile, unfiltered and true, broke onto the young man’s face, and he barely smothered it when the person beside him turned to speak with him. She was tall and slim, with long dark hair coming from beneath a violet knitted cap. She was older, though no older to be Ezreal’s mother, despite looking matronly enough as she spoke to him. She lifted her head and met his gaze. Draven flashed a smile and she returned it with far less favour. 

Draven turned his attention to Ezreal, who all but bounded excitedly over to him by the table. He sat down, beaming, cheeks still red from the cold. Draven felt urged to kiss him. “What are you doing out and about?” asked Draven. He gestured at his drink as he spoke. Ezreal shook his head. 

“Snowdown,” he replied, seemingly having changed his mind as he reached for the tankard. He took a small sip and made a small face. He handed it back. 

“Such festivities,” murmured Draven, watching him fondly. “And who might that lovely lady be? She was not so enamoured with me as you.”

The red of his cheeks were joined by the flush of his neck, and he looked embarrassed for himself, though he was quick to recover with a pointed look. “You don’t know her? She is Caitlyn, from Piltover. A sharpshooter. She’s a champion of the League.” The name hardly sparked any memory for Draven, but he nodded all the same. “And that’s Vi of Zaun, though she had last lived in Piltover.” Ezreal pointed at the cloaked figure by the corner, now joined by the woman called Caitlyn. Her hood was now down, her pink locks bright under the tavern glow of fire. Draven recognized her in an instant. 

Vi turned her gaze, eyes narrow and piercing, and she gave a small wave from across the room. Ezreal waved back. Draven was not so eager. “These are your friends, then,” said Draven gravely. Ezreal gave him an uncertain pinch of the mouth to which Draven looked at. He found the lips unfairly red and cold-bitten, a state he felt his own lips could soothe. He did nothing of the sort, instead saying, “Then I should meet them.” He picked up his tankard and stood, a nervous Ezreal scrambling to follow behind him. The boy fidgeted with words to say, Draven could feel it, but he heard nothing come. 

A silence fell over the two women as he approached, their eyes alight in the flames of the fire pit. He introduced himself first. “My name is Draven and I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, standing before them. He offered a hand to Caitlyn and she shook it firmly, but curtly. She did not smile at him again. Vi was of the complete opposite. Her smile was bright and full of teeth. She shook his hand as well. 

“We have met before,” said Caitlyn. “Many times on the Fields of Justice. You are a...memorable opponent.”

Draven bowed his head gently. “I am sorry I do not share the same sharp mind and memory as you,” he said, “though a fair face such as yours should be so difficult to forget, Caitlyn.” She did not smile, nor did she seem impressed, but it affected him not. He felt a nudge to his side as Ezreal pressed close and he slid an arm around his shoulders, as comfortably as it was easy, and he did not miss nor mistake the glare from the woman. 

“I have seen your severity on the Fields myself as well, Draven,” said Vi now, still with a touch of a grin. “And I have heard of your severity off the Fields. You hold a very dear boy to you so closely now, but I have watched you cast him far.”

“Vi!” protested Ezreal. 

She heeded him not. “He opposes to our worries,” she said, eyes never straying from his. “But even you, Draven, can agree such worries are just?” She had ordered it like a question, but it had hardly such a meaning. Draven felt his brows pull to a frown of which she seemed to embrace. 

He stilled his hands and bit back scorn. “I see those of Piltover string a tight web. It appears everyone has the pulse on a line and are most eager to let me know of it.” He looked between the two women. “I don’t believe our personal affair should be so public and I suspect you two would share the sentiment.” A moment passed slowly, inch by inch, uncomfortable and inelegant. Draven thought to leave them be, but he liked the thought of stirring fear better. 

Relenting a defeat perhaps, “Whom do you speak of?” asked Caitlyn, suspicious and circumspect. He felt Ezreal shift weight from foot to foot, bearing obvious discomfort to the exchange. The three looked to err in confusion, passing brief glances between each other. 

They did not know, Draven eventually surmised. He decided he would not be the one to spell it for them and he did not want to be. This was an affair beyond his control and influence; Jayce had not lied to him, though he had, by omission, to those he declared friends and allies. Draven was familiar with the burden that would have been asked of him. In effort to ease the tension, “Are you all always so grim?” laughed Draven. “I thought it fair to ask for some privacy in my private dealings. Not only for my sake, but for the sake of Ezreal here as well. It hardly proves helpful to announce upsets and upkeeps.” He gave a soft smile, understanding and sympathetic. It should have worked, but the apparent suspicion was thick. Vi and Caitlyn regarded him with no more warmth than before and it helped not that Ezreal remained clinging to his side. 

Finally, one of the three spoke. It was Ezreal to breach the silence, his voice tight, yet eager. “Were you, too, caught by the storm?” he asked, turning to Draven, eyes wide and imploring. “What brings you here to town?”

“An errand has me here,” replied Draven, looking down at him. “Though I have yet to complete it. The sudden onslaught of snow has me in an inn instead, though not so regretfully.” He moved his hand to cup his cheek, the flush warming quickly to his skin. Ezreal smiled meekly and fettered his eyes elsewhere until Draven dropped the touch. 

“The snow had subsided by the time Caitlyn and I made our way here,” he said, looking at no higher than his chest. “It is only the wind left to bear. And I suppose the cold, as well.”

“Then I should take my leave. My errand is of a timely manner, it is best I go.” Draven pulled his arm back and finished his tankard. “I bid you all a fair day—”

“Draven,” blurted Ezreal. Three pairs of eyes came to rest on him and he seemed quite cognizant of it, his face flushing further. He stumbled on words to say until Draven pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder, a thumb brushing the side of his neck. Ezreal looked up to him. “May I join you? On your errand. If that is you would have my company.”

Draven looked at him dearly, green eyes meeting blue. “Of course,” he answered. 

—

Ezreal stayed tucked to his side as they traversed down the newly snow-covered paths. He was quiet and tentative as he clung to his arm, the wind whistling around them. Few flakes were falling now, but it seemed townsfolk had chosen to remain indoors and left the roads quiet, save for the gust. The winter sun had begun its descent, darkening the skies in its wake.

“You appear upset,” said Draven. He felt the hand tighten on his elbow. 

“I’m not upset, Draven.”

He raised a brow, though Ezreal could not see it from beneath his hood. “No? Then what is it that has you so unlike yourself?” 

“It’s nothing.”

Draven was not so foolish as to believe his words, though they had reached the front steps of the courier and he did not interrogate him further. Draven reached for the handle to open the door, but it resisted and remained shut. He gave two rapt knocks. No answer. He knocked again. “Perhaps the snow storm has them closed,” offered Ezreal. 

“Perhaps,” answered Draven. He walked over to the small glass window and tried to peer inside. The curtain was drawn and, indeed, there appeared to be no light coming from within. It seemed to be as well as Ezreal suggested. The shop has closed. He cursed quietly under his breath. He had made all this way for nothing and now must return with the post tomorrow, or some other day. It was not as timely as he had wanted. “Alas,” he said. 

“What will you do now?” asked Ezreal, looking up from beneath his hood. Draven shrugged as he offered his elbow again, to which Ezreal claimed without a word. They began to walk down the steps and away from the courier office. 

“I have no other plans for the rest of today.”

“Neither have I,” replied Ezreal. 

Draven peered at him. “Then would you come home with me for the night?”

Ezreal tilted his head and gave him a wry smile that reached the mirth of his eyes. “It depends on what you have planned for supper.”

—

Supper consisted of roasted potatoes and herbed hare, stirred with slivers of onion and garlic. It had been filling and satisfying, but held no measure to the way which Ezreal rode him; unhurried and indulgent. 

He held a slow and even rhythm, to of which Draven both revered and regretted, as it had become apparent Ezreal did not want suggestions in setting it. Draven couldn’t help, but be persuaded to rut up into him as palms slid to hold his hips, but the blond stopped moving and slapped at his hand, hissing, “Impatient man.”

In turn, Draven gave a small smack to his behind, urging him to move again, moaning softly when he did. “You have me built up to an expectation,” replied Draven, between breaths. His fingers pressed to the swell of Ezreal’s cheek, then downwards to press his thighs tight to him. “You might want to let me have it soon.”

Between soft pants, “And what will you do?” His blond hair hung down in damp clumps, some strands stayed slicked across his forehead, as he continued his easy ride. “It sounds like you are eager for this to end.” Ezreal smiled at him from above, the glint of teeth catching in the lamp light. 

“It need not end with the first,” panted Draven, “not with me.” His hand found Ezreal and he took hold with a squeeze. He felt him shake and rock into it. 

With a breathless groan, “Too dry, Draven,” whined Ezreal. 

“Impatient boy,” he chided back, stretching for the oil. 

—

The moon had at last found the peak of the sky, shimmering gently from behind winter clouds. Draven was at the cusp of slumber as Ezreal sprawled over his side, limbs gangly and warm. 

An ache pounced over his back once more to settle deep beneath his shoulder blades, and his thoughts grew dark despite the bright bliss that had taken him just moments ago. He shifted to ease the pain, though it hardly made a difference. Such injuries mottled his mood. Draven was not to be a mere mortal bound to flesh and its frailties...yet, here he lies in the spoiled afterglow. 

He did not know the length of presence the ache intended to keep. It seemed to have become a fixed occurrence, rising when excursions were made. He wondered whether the League would call for his attendance and whether he was even in a fit condition to fight. Worse still, he wondered how he was to last on the journey through the terrains of Runeterra. He pondered not on his duties in Noxus. 

He rolled a shoulder, pulling in deep breaths to sate the soreness in vain. In the commotion of it all, Ezreal sighed softly beside him, but did not wake. Draven was thankful. He was fond of him, but he was not so blinded by affection and lust to shirk his duties. Ezreal would not understand, he reasoned. The boy was young and emboldened by his self proclaimed lack of alignment, but his loyalties were evident in the way he spoke of his home state. 

Draven thought about the letter still in his leather satchel, hanging on a hook in his study. He had been given time by circumstance. Gently, he wondered if he were meant to rethink it, to rewrite it. He dashed the thoughts away, so sharply as though he were in fury. Perhaps, he was. “I am unlike myself,” he said softly into the dark. He should be overjoyed to return home and to, once more, don the mantle. They used to chant his name until the stadium shuddered with the might of it. They used to and they should again. Slowly, Draven fell into an uneasy slumber, to distant clamours and cries, the phantom heat of fresh blood, and the persistent ache in his body.

— 

When Draven awoke, he was alone in his bed. He looked around the sheets and sat up, freezing in place when the pain bit him. It seemed it had not been placated with a long bout of sleep. Ezreal was seated by the window, face turned from him. For that, Draven was glad. 

“Good morning,” said Draven, his voice soft and worn. The blond started in his reverie, but turned to him, hair mussed and wild. 

“You missed most of the snowfall,” he replied, forgoing the pleasantries. “Come see.” He held out a hand, beckoning him keenly. Draven made a move to stand, but he grimaced before he could stop himself and Ezreal caught it promptly. He looked at him with a mixed expression. “Draven,” he said, his voice ringing strangely. 

Draven meant to lift an arm, to wave off his worries, to give reassurance, but the motion sent a searing sharpness, akin to a chorus of concerted pinches, to the centre of his back and he winced involuntarily. Soon, he opened eyes he did not know he had closed and found Ezreal’s face next to his, still so fearful and so frightened. He felt a touch to his arm. 

“Draven?” 

He made an attempt to smile, to ease his worries, but perhaps he had missed the mark. “Do not look so afraid, Ezreal.”

Ezreal’s fingertips came to rest on his jaw. “What has happened to you?” he asked in a whisper. 

“An old injury only rears its head,” replied Draven. “Nothing to fear.” Ezreal’s blue eyes peered deeply into him and in his gaze, Draven could sense his apprehension and his doubts, his care, his adoration. Draven understood at once his plight. 

“When did you get such an injury?” Ezreal asked. He placed his palms on Draven’s shoulders and gently guided him down to the bed. 

“So long ago I do not recall,” murmured Draven as he was positioned on his front. He felt cold hands on the bare flesh of his back and hissed at the sting of it. “How long have you been watching the snowfall? You are going to fall ill if you continue to perch so nakedly by the windows.”

“Do not lecture me,” grumbled Ezreal, hands still gingerly moving over his skin. The touch warmed considerably. He brushed over a point of pain and Draven winced, pulling from him. He sat and eased slow breaths into his lungs, hoping each one would not disturb whatever toil he carried on his back.

He remained quiet until he caught Ezreal’s face. “You need not worry, it will abate itself,” he said, moving to sit with a sigh. At that, Ezreal only exhaled a deep breath as he blinked up at him, his eyes so blue and wide. 

“I had barely touched your back and you flinch away so quickly, Draven,” said Ezreal. “I see no mark. What pain is this?”

“It is a familiar one and it often does not stay for too long,” Draven relented. Ezreal remained unconvinced as he reached to draw the blankets over them. He pressed his cheek to Draven’s shoulder and shut his eyes, but not for the intention of slumber. 

The quiet drawn on, with Ezreal’s even breaths falling softly on his skin, close and calming. Despite it, Draven could feel the energy of thoughts roiling beneath the surface of Ezreal’s skull after having been so eager to placate his aches. Draven had noted his attempted mending. He had felt the ghost of a prickling heat, a shimmer of a dull warmth to his flesh, and though he was unfamiliar with the manners of it, he understood it to be magic. It left the air about them humming imperceptibly with an arcane charge, akin to the first flight of a spark of flint. “What helps to hurry its leave?” murmured Ezreal, his blond lashes fluttering, but not to open. His cheeks were pale under the flaxen wisps. 

“Rest,” managed Draven. He wrapped an arm over the small of Ezreal’s back and tucked him close. 

“Rest it is, then,” replied Ezreal. A hand of his came to touch the side of Draven’s cheek, a gentle pressure to guide his mouth to his. It was chaste in nature, but Draven could taste more and he eased closer to chase it. By a firm hand, Ezreal did not let him draw any nearer. His eyes had opened and was staring down to the lips he had just held back. “Why did you stop me?” Ezreal asked him in a murmur. 

“You were the one to push from me. I did not know my lips would offend you so,” answered Draven, amused. Blue eyes flicked upwards to meet him in a stern gaze. Ezreal gave him a small hit to the chest with an open palm to which Draven inhaled sharply as he grabbed at his wrist. 

He looked down at him, provoked by his gall. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Don’t be daft, Draven.”

The moment had Draven in a small temper and he wanted to tighten his hold on him, to gift back what was given. It was something so easy to do. He exhaled, his breath coming out ragged, and he let Ezreal go. He winced as Ezreal pulled away, cradling his wrist with his other hand. His face held no warm expression as he stared at him. Draven watched for the boy to gather himself and to run, but Ezreal stayed put, though with a distance between them now. Draven held out a hand. He knew to be patient. 

Ezreal glanced down at it with suspicion, but all the same, he touched the offered palm with his fingers and Draven moved to cover his hand with his other. He bent his head to the detriment of his back ache and he pressed a kiss to his wrist. Ezreal said nothing as he leaned back up, still holding his hand between his. 

The boy’s expression was softer now, but his eyes were no less expectant. “What is it?” asked Draven.

“Why did you stop me?” he repeated.

Draven finally lifted a hand to brush his cheek, his chin. The boy’s eyes slid closed at the touch. “Forgive me,” said Draven. He offered no more, no less. Ezreal did not ask again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 1, 2020
> 
> And so it is. Thank you for reading. Zjol.


End file.
